


Synchronicity

by Authoressinhiding



Series: Synchronicity [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Humor, Gen, Long-Distance Friendship, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 125
Words: 481,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2648687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Authoressinhiding/pseuds/Authoressinhiding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester only knows one person as screwed up as he is. She calls herself a vampire slayer. But wait, aren't vampires extinct? Starts pre-SPN, post-BtVS. Faith and Dean friendship-centric. Originally posted on FF, cross-posted here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing in this fic except for the dialogue, plot, and a few minor OC's. All the rest belongs to Joss Whedon and Eric Kripke.
> 
> A/N: Synchronicity is the simultaneous occurrence of events that appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection. In other words, meaningful coincidences. While this story contains significant amounts of action, adventure, and alcohol intoxication, it is first and foremost a character study.

 

* * *

**May 2003, Los Angeles**

In terms of interpersonal relationships, you might say it had been quite an eventful week, Faith reflected, wishing that thought smacked a little less of bitterness. You helped to save the world, and what did you get? Bupkis. Or, worse than bupkis - confinement with five or six of the people you found most annoying in the world.

You would think, wouldn't you, that spending a week in Disneyland and Hollywood on the Watcher's Council's dollar would be fun. Catch some rays, meet some nice weirdos in chipmunk costumes. You'd think it would be a blast. Faith had certainly hoped so.

Once the smoke all cleared around the giant crater formerly known as Sunnydale, she'd been in half a mind to run. Running, Faith was beginning to realize, was a prominent theme in her life.

Run where? That, she didn't know. She never really knew. Back to Angel in L.A.? Back to jail, with three squares and a movie and rules that made sense? Back to Boston to find her deadbeat relatives? She was screwed up, and she was lonely, and she was effing tired of living in Buffy's shadow, hanging out with Buffy's friends.

Ultimately, that was why Disneyland had blown so hard. The more time she spent with the remaining Scoobies and newly activated Slayers, the more she remembered why that pre-coma year in Sunnyhell had been so g-ddamn awful. The Slayerettes were annoying and insecure and constantly yammered on like a pack of Pomeranians. And as for Buffy's friends, enough history of dislike lingered there to make an Everest of awkwardness. Plus, the whole thing with Robin had gone up in smoke. Faith didn't want a boyfriend, especially not one who wanted to play head games with her or mold her into something.

The only one of the whole crew that she could stand was Giles, and he was too busy making important phone calls, trying to put together a new Watcher's Council, and reestablishing his relationship with Saint Buff to pay attention to Faith. Not that she minded, really. Giles, like everybody else, had been Buffy's friend first.

So had their Disney been the happiest place on earth? Maybe for Dawnie, who didn't seem to remember Spike sacrificing himself for all of them just the week before. Certainly not for Faith, who spent the entire week worrying over her legal status, avoiding making eye contact with Xander or Robin, and dancing on eggshells around the Buffster.

Yep, Faith definitely had to get the hell away from them, strike out on her own. She just needed a few things first: a new driver's license, $500 in cash, to not be wanted by the police, and to have an idea of where to go.

What she wanted, Faith concluded, after having locked herself in the bathroom of the hotel room she was sharing with three new Slayers, looking for a little alone time before the imminent partying that night, was a fresh start. She couldn't talk her way out of going out with the Scoobies and the Slayerettes, but she could keep pondering her options.

Smiling grimly at her reflection in the mirror, the Slayer applied a little more mascara to her already thickly coated lashes. Speaking of options... if she didn't like her present company, she could always find someone new tonight. That had been an available choice since she was fifteen, and if Faith had her way, it always would be.

* * *

At twenty-four, Dean Winchester was finally beginning to accept the fact that his life was a mess. He had come out to California three weeks ago to deal with a poltergeist in San Diego and had ended up staying, picking up hauntings and missing persons cases as he slowly wound his way up the coast. Nothing big or world-ending, just small salt-and-burn deals. If Dean was being honest with himself, which usually only happened in the middle of a hunt or after a sixpack of beer, he was dawdling, trying to make up his mind whether or not to keep driving up to Palo Alto. Drop in on Sam.

It had been just over a year since his little brother had stormed off to Stanford after a screaming match with Dad. Dean had lost track of the number of drunken voicemails he'd left on Sammy's phone, of the number of times he or John had debated driving out to visit Sam. A year since Sam left, and a month since his dad took off on an unspecified case of his own, calling every couple of days or so.

After an encounter with the particularly vindictive ghost, who had knocked over a telephone pole nearly on top of him, Dean stopped by a bar on the east side of L.A. that he'd found the night before. It was Western themed, with wooden saloon doors that swung open, John Wayne posters on every wall, and a jukebox playing a perpetual mix of Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn, and Johnny Cash.

If Sammy or his dad were around, Dean would have avoided the place like the plague. On his own, since the drinks were cheap, the pool table in the back room was level, and the bartender was almost hot enough to have modeled for Playboy, he could put up with a little classic country.

He was partway through beer number two, and relaxation was starting to sink in. A beer and a half wasn't near enough to make Dean's head fuzzy, but it took the edges off the nasty things at the back of his mind. He could let go of Sam a little easier, stop worrying about his dad's new obsession, and inspect the group of people who had just walked in.

The girl at the front was short, blond, and generally Dean's type, but there was something pinched in her face, and she had linked arms with a guy in an eyepatch. Seriously? An eyepatch? Who did he think he was, a pirate?

Mentally shaking his head, Dean continued his survey of the newcomers. A nerdy redhead and a hot brunette followed the blond and the pirate, but they were holding hands, so they were out. The lesbian couple was trailed by a few girls with wide eyes and high-pitched voices who were glancing around the bar (and at Dean) like it was all incredibly exotic.

It was the last woman who really caught his attention. Dark hair, dark eyes, heavy amounts of eyeliner and mascara, red lipstick, skintight clothes. She followed her friends into the bar, gave the room a bored once-over, and then ditched the group to head purposefully his way. She slid onto the barstool next to Dean and held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Faith."

"Dean." Her grip, strong and callused, surprised him. He had been expecting something a little less aggressive, a little more feminine.

"Nice to meet you, Dean." Faith grinned at him, brown eyes bright and friendly. She gestured to the bartender. "Shot of whiskey, please." A glance towards him. "Can I get you anything?"

He raised his half-full bottle. "I'm good for now, thanks. Later, though, I might take you up on that."

"Looking forward to it. Cheers." Faith picked up the shot glass seconds after the bartender placed it in front of her. She threw her head back and downed the whiskey in one go, then gestured for another. "So, Dean, tell me. What brings you to the City of Angels?"

Dean had picked up lots of women in lots of bars across the country, but there was something different about Faith. She didn't bat her eyelashes or comment on the size of his biceps or gaze soulfully into his eyes. She was neither naive nor predatory, but a disturbing level of direct somewhere in between. She listened to his half-truths about why he was in L.A. with a wry smile and, when prompted, provided a back-story just as specious as his. Within five minutes, Dean could tell that she was planning on leaving with him. Five minutes later, he had made up his mind to leave with her.

They were in no rush. After the second whiskey, Faith switched to beer, and she nursed the same bottle throughout the rest of the evening. Dean let her buy him his third beer in return for some pool lessons. She wasn't hustler material, but she was good enough to play a close game of two-on-two against the blonde and the pirate that she had come in with.

Even comfortably hydrated with alcohol, Dean could tell there was something off in the way she interacted with her friends. He couldn't quite label it exactly, but he knew Sammy would have known the specific word Dean was hunting –  _searching_  – for. It stung a little that he wasn't, and so Dean finished his third beer and went back to the bar for another.

Returning, he taught Faith some trick shots: how to bank the cue ball off the opposite edge of the table, how to use the cue to generate a last minute spin. She allowed him to get all up close and personal, let him move her arms and stance to line up the shot right. But then he felt the tension in her body, and Dean wondered if he needed to rethink his plans for the night.

One of the bouncy girls complained to the bartender about the jukebox, and the music changed to Top 40 hits. Faith took his hand and dragged him out onto the dance floor. This, he knew, was going to end badly. Dean had never been a dance aficionado – hell, he'd really never had time for it. The only dance he liked to do tended to be a bit more horizontal.

He tried to laughingly beg off, but the woman ignored him. She towed him to the middle of the beer-stained parquet square and wrapped the arm holding a beer bottle around his neck. With a toss of her wavy brown hair over one shoulder, Faith began to sway her hips distractingly close to his. Her dancing was far more flirtatious that her conversation.

"Hey," Dean started, then noticed her eyes were shut tight. This wasn't about him, he realized, as she continued dancing with him. This was about her, or something else, and she was using him a little bit right now. What the hell. They were both going to be using each other a little bit later, and her dancing was damn sexy.

The drive back to his motel was surprisingly unawkward. Faith demonstrated the proper amount of appreciation for the Impala. Her sincere "Holy sh-t!" at the sight of the vintage black car made him laugh properly for the first time since he got to California. Even better, she didn't seem to find him any less attractive because of his slightly skeevy motel room. To the contrary, she went from zero to sixty miles an hour once the door shut, not even blinking when his revolver hit the floor along with his jeans.

Afterwards, Dean was surprised when she stayed next to him. He had received the distinct impression that she was not the cuddling type. Instead of gathering up her clothes and disappearing out the door, which he had expected, Faith propped her head up on one hand, mindlessly tracing one of his older scars – a bad encounter with a wendigo when he was fifteen had left Dean with a thick, ropy souvenir across the left side of his rib cage – with the other. She lazily dragged the tip of her index finger along his sternum and up over his throat to tap him on the chin. "Thanks."

"Yeah?" His voice was husky.

"This's been fun." Faith extended her neck upwards and kissed him. Settling back down, she fell asleep in minutes.

_Women,_  Dean reflected. He would never understand them.

* * *

"I know. I know. It was irresponsible."

Dean woke to an empty bed and the sound of irritated whispers. He listened, eyes closed, to Faith's angry conversation with someone on the other end of her cell phone.

"B. They had you and the Scoobies. It's not like they were going to get into any trouble." A pause, and the quiet rustle of fabric sliding over skin. Ah. So she was leaving, then.

"So what if it is setting a bad example? I can't believe you're harping on about this. You're not exactly a Hallmark card for healthy relationships yourself . . . Whatever. I'll be there in half an hour. You can tell the posse to settle themselves down."

A click as she flipped the phone shut, followed by a steady stream of vehement cursing. Dean almost felt sorry for the people her invective was directed towards. Almost. He had been looking forward to round two with Faith.

"Sorry about leaving early, cowboy," Faith said to the room at large. "Thought this might go somewhere interesting."

Before he could decide whether or not to respond, footsteps padded in the direction of the door, which opened and shut quietly.

_Dammit_ , Dean thought, falling quickly back into sleep.  _Maybe she left her number._

When he properly woke up five hours later, however, there was no phone number to be found. Dean was unsurprised; Faith seemed like a "love 'em and leave 'em" type of girl. Still, it would have been fun.

 


	2. Samaritan, pt 1

**August 2003, Cleveland, Ohio**

One of these nights, Dean was going to learn his lesson about excessive drinking and trying to hustle motorcyle gangbangers at pool. But not tonight. Sober, he could handle one bruiser with a hand tied behind his back. On a good day, he probably could have taken all three of them down.

Unfortunately, Dean Winchester was on the tail end of a month-long streak of bad days. He had downed almost a fifth of whiskey that afternoon before finding his way to the closest dive bar with a pool table and Poker games. A little too much attitude when trying to goad his opponent into scratching, a little too much gloating when he won $200 off their leader, a little too much eagerness to get into a fight when the bikers confronted him in the bar parking lot... Just a little less cockiness, and he wouldn't be in this alley, being held down by two bikers while their leader tried to beat him to a pulp.

A fist drove into his already sore stomach, and Dean groaned. He threw his right arm out blindly, hoping to make contact with the large man holding him on that side, but his attackers took advantage of Dean's momentum and gave him a harsh shove from the left. Dean went down on one knee, hard enough for the gravelled ground to rip through his jeans and dig its way into his skin. He choked back an expletive and slammed his left elbow backwards into someone's gut. One of the bruisers grunted in pain. Okay. That was something.

"Come on, Mike. Just finish it," growled the man on Dean's right. "This is getting annoying."

"All right, lads." Dean could hear the triumph in Mike's voice. "Watch this."

Dean tensed his abs in preparation for another blow, but Mike caught him by surprise this time with a forceful kick to the back of his standing leg. The hunter crashed down onto his other knee. Damn. Now he was really at a disadvantage.

"Time to send this little fairy back to Never Never Land," Mike continued. He stepped back around to Dean's front. "Goodnight, sweetheart," the biker crowed, drawing his fist back.

"Hey!" A woman's voice, rough and angry, from somewhere behind them. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Dammit," growled Mike, but he let the blow fall anyway, coldcocking Dean with one punch. "Drop him, boys. Let's go."

The other bikers released Dean's arms, and the man fell to the ground in an unconscious heap. After a couple of kicks for good measure, they ran for the other end of the empty alley, away from the angry woman, who hadn't stopped yelling and was sprinting towards them.

She ran past the body and was halfway down the alley, intent on catching and pummeling the bikers, when a quiet voice stopped her.

"Faith. Hey, I think this guy's really hurt. Let them go."

Growling with frustration, the woman stopped and turned back to her companion, a slight young man in his early twenties, kneeling beside the body. "Andrew."

"He's unconscious. Look."

Still growling, she joined Andrew. Together, they carefully rolled the man over onto his back and lifted his torso into Andrew's lap. The young man whistled softly under his breath at the expanse of colorful bruises covering the stranger's face. He hadn't ever seen that particular combination of red, purple, and blue before.

"Hey, can you hear me?" he began, shaking the man's shoulders gently, attempting to bring him back to consciousness. "Hey, hey, are you okay?"

"This isn't some dumb CPR video," the woman snapped. "Here." She slapped the man across the face, hard. "Wake up, princess."

The man moaned.

"Good. That's good," Andrew coaxed, encouragingly, "Come on. Wake up. Open your eyes and look at us. Can't have random strangers dying in the alleyway. Doesn't go down well with the tourist crowd."

"Who..." the man coughed around the words. "Who are you?"

"I'm Andrew," chirruped Andrew. "And this is Faith."

The man chuckled weakly, his eyes still closed. "I knew a Faith . . . once. Hot as hell. Tiger in the sack."

Faith's skin blanched. "Hell," she muttered under her breath. Now she knew why that bloodied face looked familiar. And, although roughened and weakened by pain, that voice wasn't something she could forget. "Move over, Andrew." She leaned over the man on the ground. "Dean? Dean from Kansas?"

Dean's eyes fluttered open. He gazed up at the woman and blinked slowly to bring her into focus. "Faith?" he asked weakly. "What're you doing here? This isn't California."

"No crap, Sherlock. Have car, will travel." She flashed him a brittle smile and then sat back on her haunches. "Well, that changes things," she addressed Andrew quietly. "We need to take him somewhere, get him cleaned up."

"No hospital," groaned Dean. "No hospital."

Faith raised an eyebrow. "O-kay… Where's your car?"

"What?"

The woman scoffed. "Like I could forget Dean the Kansas boy with the pretty face and the dangerous green eyes and the lady killer car. I'm going to send Andrew to get her, and then we are going to take you somewhere to get your face looked at. And your legs," she added, glancing down to the disturbingly dark patches on the knees of his jeans. "You're soaked in blood."

"Mmm."

"Where's the car?"

"Front . . . of . . . the bar."

"Keys?"

"Pocket."

"Right. Here goes nothing." Faith bent down. It took her a moment to locate the pocket in question, given the darkness of the alleyway and the blood. Even then, she had to detangle them from a wad of gas station receipts and gum wrappers.

Dean attempted to grin, but it came out as a grimace. "Tickles."

"You wish," she replied brusquely. Ah. There they were. Free and clear. "Andrew, switch me."

Andrew held the man's – Dean's – shoulders upright, backing free while Faith slid in to take his place. Once Dean was carefully settled against her, his head propped up on her shoulder, one of her arms locked tight around his waist, Faith handed the keys to Andrew. "It's a black Chevy, Drew. Old-looking car. The kind you wished you had in high school to get girls."

"A DeLorean?"

"And this is why you never got any," Faith grumbled, sotto voce. The wounded man chuckled weakly. "Car, Andrew, now. Hurry."

"You know," she added conversationally, as Andrew's footsteps faded away and she took the time to do a visual trauma assessment on Dean, "I never fancied running into you here." Her eyes skimmed over the bruises on his face, an eye that was already starting to swell, the left arm cradled to his chest, down to the bloodied knees (picking the gravel out of that was going to be a B...) and the torn jeans.

"Could have said the same for you," Dean gasped, longing to sink back into unconsciousness. He  _hurt_. Everywhere. Faith felt his body relaxing, heard his breath slowing, and she shook him.

"Stay awake, concussion boy."

"Don't have a concussion."

"You don't know that, and I don't know that, so we've got to keep you talking . . . . Looked like you were doing a pretty good job of playing punching bag back there. What happened?"

"Bad day."

"Bad day 'cause you pissed off a bunch of bikers, or bad day because they were winning?"

"Winning."

Now  _that_  was an attitude Faith could sympathize with. "Yeah, a brawl's not so much fun when you aren't the one doing the hitting. So . . . No hospital?"

Dean shook his head once, letting it flop over to the side, his nose brushing against Faith's neck. "No hospital." He inhaled noisily. "Y'smell nice."

Faith flinched, jerking her head away. "Sorry. Reflex," she explained. Where was Andrew with that car?

"Not gonna hurt you," he mumbled.

"What?"

"Cassie thought I was crazy, thought I was gonna hurt her when I told her. I wouldn't've."

Funny how people tended to spill their guts after incidents with alcohol and head trauma. "Told her what?" Faith asked, cautious. Her cynical mind whispered that this one-night stand turned Good Samaritan moment was about to bite her in the butt.

"I'm a hunter."

"Hunter as in killing Bambi's mother?" Well, that wasn't so bad. It was better than being a klepto.

Again the weak shake of the head, again the nose and the hot breath on her neck. Faith steeled herself not to react this time. "Nah. Hunt  _things_."

"Oh, so like an antiquer. You hunt old-fashioned lamps and stuff. Wait . . . she was afraid you were going to hurt her because you were gonna leave her because you're gay?" she asked teasingly, trying to keep him talking. Seriously, though, she had  _got_  to start asking about sexual orientation before she slept with people.

"No. Not lamps.  _Things._ And not gay."

"What kind of  _things_  do you hunt, Dean?"

"'M not s'posed to say. S'a secret."

It really wasn't any of her business, and she really shouldn't ask, but Faith had never been big on "should's." "I'm good at keeping secrets."

"Monsters. Ghosts.  _Things._ "

This seemed to be Andrew's cue. The giant boat of car came purring through the alleyway, stopping five feet from them. Faith took one look at the nine inches of space on either side of the Impala and instantly decided that she would be the one driving home.

"This car is oooold," Andrew announced, sounding relieved, as he climbed out of the driver's seat.

"M'baby? She's not old."

Faith started growling again. "Dean, be quiet. Andrew, get your butt over here. Help me lift him into the car."

Andrew locked his arms around Dean's back, underneath his shoulders, and lifted while Faith stood. Then, one person on each side, they raised the man to his feet. Half-carrying, half-dragging him, they managed to get Dean into the backseat of the Impala. Andrew slid in after him, charged with keeping the hunter from choking on his own blood and asphyxiating or something equally stupid, while Faith got up front.

"Where to?" she asked Andrew, a tinge of nervousness coloring her voice, fingers clenched tight around the old steering wheel.

"Apartment? Or the hospital?"

"No hospital," slurred Dean.

_Great._  "Apartment it is." Faith shifted into first gear and carefully drove through the narrow alley. There went another of her rules: never bring a guy back to your place.

_Please don't let me crash this car_ , she thought, followed by,  _God, if you get me out of this okay, I am done picking up guys in bars. I swear._

* * *

Looking back, Dean was never able to fully recall the hours that followed being picked up in the alleyway. He remembered bits and pieces of Faith and Andrew bickering in quiet, urgent voices, of his poor radio playing tacky Muzak, of Faith setting him down on a wooden chair and stripping him down to his boxers. If he struggled hard enough, he could catch a few more memories: a pair of concerned voices exclaiming at the bruises and scars covering his body; gentle hands tweezing the gravel out of his knees and bandaging them; a warm wash cloth wiping the blood from his face; and a glass of water and a couple of large white pills.

There were other memories, too, ones that were less than pleasant: closing his eyes against the yellow electric light of Faith's kitchen; groaning when a particularly large chunk of gravel was removed; passing out repeatedly from pain and exhaustion only to be woken by a slap across the face, or, later on, when the slaps stopped working, the pressure of small, chapped lips on his. These memories weren't brave, and they weren't manly. Well, the lips part was kinda nice ...

He remembered vaguely when it was all over at last, and Faith putting her arm beneath his shoulder and hefting him upright. For some reason, his mind chose to retain the image of looking down and seeing her hand, dirty and bloodsmeared against the white of his bandages. After that, Dean truly remembered nothing.

* * *

"What are you going to do with him?" Andrew asked as Faith pulled her bedcovers up and over a half-naked, once again sleeping Dean. She shot him a Glare of DOOM, borrowed from Giles, and jerked her head towards the door.

Closing the door silently behind them, Faith moved back into the dingy kitchen, its already dirty linoleum now littered with the packaging from rolls of gauze, Dean's filthy, torn clothing, and a bowl full of bloody gravel. The bowl wasn't the only thing splattered with blood; Faith and Andrew were also liberally coated with the fluid, as were half the towels in the apartment.

"And to think, cleaning day was yesterday," she muttered, gathering up the clothes. "Andrew . . . Don't tell Robin – or anyone else – about this, okay?"

"Sure," he promised, picking up the bandage packaging and the gravel and dumping both into the kitchen trash can. "Just tell me, though – what are we going to do with him?"

Considering the question, Faith shook out Dean's clothes over the linoleum before folding them carefully: jeans, button-down shirt, and undershirt. She set his boots against the wall by the front door and draped his dark brown leather jacket over the back of her IKEA couch. Picking up the folded pile of clothing, she led the way to where the washer and dryer sat atop one another at the back of the hallway.

"This is just great," the woman grumbled as she tossed the bloody clothing into the washing machine and then pulled her long-sleeved black shirt over her head.

"What's great?" Andrew tried not to look as his boss stepped out of her jeans and added them to the pile of laundry.

"Go get the towels, Andrew."

"Oh, right."

By the time he returned, half a minute later, Faith was dressed again, this time in a faded Cleveland Browns T-shirt and ratty gray sweat pants, ready to start a load of laundry. She stuck the towels in with the rest of the bloody clothing and punched the "start" button on the washing machine.

Faith headed back towards the living room. "To answer your question,  _we_  aren't going to do anything.  _I_  am going to see what Dean says when he wakes up. Not all of those injuries were caused by angry bikers. Some of 'em looked a couple of days old."

"How do you know?"

"Slayer, prison, had the living daylights beat out of me by Angelus, remember? This ain't my first rodeo."

"Speaking of rodeos . . . how did you know what his name was? Did I sense that you two had  _trysted_  before?"

Barking a laugh, more tired than amused, the vampire slayer shook her head. "Dude. You cannot use tryst as a verb. We need to up your game, make it a little more smooth."

" _Faith_." Andrew tried frustration, and it actually worked, for once.

"Okay. Okay. Yeah, I know Dean. Met him in California after the Disneyland Nightmare Vacation. We, uh," Faith coughed discreetly. "Well, you know. Haven't heard from him since."

"So you do have an angle?"

"Look, Andrew, I appreciate that you're trying to shrink my head here – G-d knows I could probably use it, but it's a little late, and I've got to come up with a convincing reason for Robin why that nest of vampires wasn't taken out tonight. What do I want from Dean? Honestly, I want him not to die in my house. He does that for me, and we're five by five."

"Faith . . . "

It was said firmly but with a smile. "Good night, Andrew. I'll call you in the morning."

Finally, after belaboring the point, the young Watcher-in-training left. Faith locked the front door behind him, sliding the bolts home on all three dead locks. You could never be too careful.

She glanced longingly around the room and grumbled. Why hadn't she thought to grab an extra blanket earlier? Too late now. Well, since Dean had all of her blankets, she would simply have to borrow his jacket. Amused, Faith lifted the leather jacket from the back of the couch. Wrapping it around herself, she flicked off the lights before curling up on the couch and setting an alarm on her chunky cell phone for an hour later. After all, someone had to shift the laundry to the dryer and make sure Dean didn't have a concussion.

All things considered, Faith wasn't too upset with the Powers That Be for bringing Los Angeles Dean back into her life. She had a feeling that he tended to make life interesting. Plus, he could wear the hell out of a leather jacket.

 


	3. Samaritan, pt 2

_Where the hell am I?_  Dean wondered, his mind swimming back into real consciousness. He had woken up at least twice before in the last half hour, only to drift off again. This time, however, the hunter forced himself to open his eyes. The sight of an unfamiliar ceiling, accompanied by the realization that he wasn't wearing anything other than his underwear, did not jar him. This was not the first time Dean had woken up in some girl's bed, not entirely sure of how he got there. No, it was the bandages wrapped around his legs and chest that froze him cold.

Dean didn't hook up with chicks when he was injured; at least, not when he was injured enough to require more than a band-aid. The sympathy points were never worth the nosey questions – or the dressing down from Dad when John found out how reckless his eldest had been with the family secret.

Last night's events started trickling back, and the hunter groaned at his own stupidity. Not only had he picked a fight and lost it, but he had been rescued by some one-night fling he didn't know anything about. And, to add the final, sixth foot to the grave he'd dug himself, he had told her about monsters. Well, hopefully she thought he was just hammered.

_Time for damage control_ ,  _you handsome son of a gun._ If there was one thing Dean could count on, it was the power of his green eyes and gleaming smile to convince women of his sincerity.

Ignoring the protests of his sore body, Dean sat up and got a better look at the layout of the room. Everything was more college-student than he would have expected, given his few hours' acquaintance with Faith. All of the furnishings coughed Target or IKEA. With one exception - a heavy cedar chest at the foot of the full bed. By the rules of wooden chests, this one contained one of three things: pirate gold, body parts, or a woman's linen dowry. Folded atop the chest was a small pile of clothes Dean recognized as his. The keys to the Impala, his gold amulet, and his cell phone were placed neatly on top.

Pulling his jeans on was a slow process. Bending his knees hurt like a mother – those scrapes were going to take weeks to heal – and the material kept catching on the gauze pads taped to his knee caps. At last getting the pants up to his thighs, Dean yanked them the rest of the way on and did his fly up quickly with shaking fingers.

Dragging his shirt over his head was almost as painful. There was a squeezing tightness in his chest that ached whenever he lifted his arms. At least one of his ribs was probably cracked, then. That was the last time he was going to get into it with three to one odds and no backup.

Dressing any further required too much effort, so Dean slipped on his amulet necklace and grabbed the rest of his things with one hand. Barefoot, he walked to the bedroom door and opened it slowly. Hit the head, find his shoes, thank Faith for her help, and then get the hell out of there. It should take ten minutes, tops, and then Dean would be free to locate a motel and check in with his dad. He was already looking forward to putting another one of his bad hook-up stories firmly in the past.

As so often happens, however, fate had other plans.

Dean managed to reach the bathroom unscathed. He glanced around at the shower and sink while relieving himself, noticing a distinct lack of the colorful bottles of hairspray, perfume, and strange face concoctions that tended to litter most of the women's bathrooms that he had seen. Even the hand soap, although lime green, wasn't anything special. To be honest, he kind of suspected it was Dawn jazzed up in a glass dispenser.

While drying his hands on a red-and-white striped towel (probably also Target), he practiced his best smile in the mirror, the one guaranteed to make a girl's knees buckle at twenty paces. Its effects were somewhat dimmed by the bandaged cut on his right cheekbone, but only slightly. After a quick wink at his reflection, Dean opened the bathroom door.

Letting his footsteps fall a little louder now, he wandered back into the kitchen, following the smell of coffee. It wouldn't hurt if he had a little bit of breakfast before leaving – or maybe packed up something to go.

Faith was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting, a mug in her hands. She stood when he walked in. Dean took a moment to get a proper look at her. It had been a long three months since she had left him in that motel room, and last night was still fuzzy.

She was as he remembered, with a few small changes: sweat pants and sneakers instead of jeans and boots; thick brown hair in a ponytail instead of hanging loose. Still, Dean got the feeling that something else was off.

"You're awake," she said, smiling. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," Dean admitted. "Thanks for helping me out there."

"Don't worry about it. Can't leave your acquaintances passed out in alleyways, after all. I was just glad I had some first aid training. You were pretty out of it."

"I was?"

Faith set the coffee mug down in the sink and rinsed it out. "Yeah. How's your head doing?"

The man rubbed the back of his neck, feeling somehow off-balance. "It aches a little," he admitted. "You got any tylenol?"

"Coming right up. Can I get you some coffee or breakfast or anything?"

"Just coffee, thanks. Then I'd probably better be hitting the road."

She glanced up from the ancient coffee maker. "Leaving already? You're welcome to stay a couple days."

Faced with direct scrutiny, Dean's excuses started falling apart. "I should, I've um,"

"Come on, Dean." Faith flashed him her own knee-buckling, megawatt smile. "It would be nice. We didn't really get to know each other as well as I'd hoped, last time." She handed him the coffee and tylenol, still smiling. "Besides, it'll be easier to change those bandages with two people. And technically, shouldn't concussions be watched for at least twenty-four hours?"

"Um, supervised, I think is the word."

"Even better. I'm very good at . . . supervising things," Faith said suggestively.

"I guess I could stay, uh, twenty-four hours," Dean capitulated. The hunt could wait that long. Particularly if Faith meant what she kept implying.

"Perfect! It's settled then. I'm training for a half-marathon, so I've got to go run, but when I get back, we can see about those bandages, okay? I'll pick up some more antibiotic ointment stuff while I'm out. The Internet password is somewhere on my desk, and you're welcome to help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Need anything else before I go?"

He was taken aback by her perkiness. The girl he remembered from California had been friendly, but she had definitely not been this peppy. But if she was going to be gone, that would give him time to get work done. "Nope, I'm set."

"Cool. I should be back in an hour. Cheers, then." Faith grabbed a set of keys off the kitchen table and left.

After finishing his coffee and finding his boots, Dean ventured outside to check on his baby. The Impala was doing fine, and, even better, the second compartment in the trunk looked as if it hadn't been touched. Just in case, though, Dean rearranged the rest of the trunk, moving the toolbox, ice chest, and spare tire so that the latch was hidden. He hoisted his duffel bag over one shoulder and headed back into the apartment.

While the place was empty, Dean wanted to maximize his time. He found the wifi password buried beneath a stack of mythology books, and booted up his ancient laptop. While he waited for it to load, the hunter checked his cell phone for messages. Nothing but a missed call from Pastor Jim.

Best to handle that now, before Faith got back. Dean settled himself in the desk chair and hit "return call."

"Dean!" A cheerful voice with a bit of Southern drawl answered. "Sorry to miss your call the other day. You still in Ohio?"

"Yeah, yeah. I've got . . . well, I don't really know what I've got, Jim. This isn't something I've seen before."

"Start from the beginning. What's going on?"

The hunter rummaged in his bag for a pad of paper and a pen to take notes. "So, this one neighborhood has always been quiet. Nothing weird, just urban crime and stuff. Eighteen days ago, homeless guys starting vanishing. And then last week, two local occult bookstores were robbed, and the shopkeepers have been reported missing. Three days ago, the first bodies started showing up. One of the homeless guys and both the shopkeepers were found, exsanguinated."

"Sounds like vampires."

"Aren't they extinct, though? And anyway, the bite pattern's different – these guys all have two holes in their neck, two and a half inches apart. Classic Stoker. But that's one of the biggest things that Stoker got wrong, right?"

A thoughtful noise from the other end of the line. "Well, that's something I've been looking into the last couple of days or so. Made some calls, asked some questions on chat sites. Consensus is that vampires are more of a genus than a species."

"A what?"

"Genus. You know, like you get wolves and coyotes and someone's rag tag Fluffy, and they're all technically related. Apparently, there's something of a spectrum with vampires."

Dean started sketching a flow chart with fanged canines. "So, what – the vamps we're used to hunting are the wolves, the Stoker ones are the coyotes?"

"Yep. Sounds like it."

"Awesome. Any idea what works on these coyotes?"

"Holy water, stake through the heart, decapitation. The standard Stoker stuff. Not sure about the garlic. There's um," Pastor Jim coughed, "there's a certain, er, group of people who hunt these specific vampires. Slayers, I think they're called."

He added this to his list under the title  _Leads_. "Slayers? Huh. Sounds ominous. Kinda slasher flick."

"Mmm. From what I've been able to find out, Slayers are typically women, and they're backed up by a research/funding group called the Watcher's Council. Used to be only one in the world, but then, a few years back, one of 'em got brought back from the dead, and then there were two. Guess they liked doubling their numbers, 'cause something happened this spring, and now there are over fifty."

"Do you know how to contact any of them? Maybe they have a pamphlet - '10 Tips on Killing Vampires' or something like that. Be nice to check in with the experts."

"I can do you one better. There's actually a group of them in Cleveland right now. I think you've actually met one of them?"

"Huh?" The pen clattered to the floor.

"Got a call this morning, from a Slayer I ran across in Alabama a few years ago. She was asking me if I knew a hunter named Dean with – quoting her here – 'Do-Me Eyes.' Reckon she'd be the best one to talk to. She goes by Faith. Last name starts with an ell, maybe."

Dean recognized the sinking feeling of his stomach falling to his toes. "Describe her for me?"

"Brown hair, doe eyes, somewhat indecent. Swears like an army sergeant and doesn't always like wearing clothes."

Yep. That sounded about right. He rubbed the back of his neck fiercely. "Yeah . . . I know her. I'm . . . uh, . . . staying at her house right now."

Pastor Jim chuckled. "Well, then. That's who you should talk to about the vampire problem. She'll know exactly what to do with it."

"Uh huh."

"Oh, and Dean?"

"Yeah?"

The older man was still laughing. "Good luck."

* * *

Getting information out of a person was all about waiting for the right moment, something Dean considered himself an expert at. And so, he waited. He waited the duration of Faith's run, rifling through her kitchen cupboards, finding the ingredients to make grilled cheese sandwiches. He waited while the food cooked, cleaning out the nasty coffee maker. He waited throughout all of lunch, watching Faith's face, studying her behavior for any hidden clues. He waited while she trotted off the shower, leaving a trail of innuendo in her wake. Even then, Dean waited another five minutes after the water turned on before springing the trap.

He knocked on the door once, waited for her cheery, "Come in!", and entered.

Dean kept his eyes on the toilet, grateful that the tan shower curtain only showed Faith's silhouette. This wasn't really a good moment for distractions.

"What's up?" Still cheerful, still flirtatious. He wondered if that was all about to change.

"So. Vampire Slayer, huh?"

The flirtatiousness disappeared from her voice. "You talk to Jim?"

"Yeah. He said you called, asked about me. Were you going to tell me?"

She answered his question slowly, pausing between sentences. "Didn't think you were in the biz until last night. And I still wasn't too sure. Can't talk shop with strangers. I was going to bring it up . . . when I figured out how to do it without you throwing me into a wall."

Huh. There wasn't much he could say to this. She made a convincing argument. "Good point. How, uh, how do you know Jim again?"

"He was taking a bus full of Baptists somewhere in Alabama when they got attacked by three vamps. Whole congregation had gone to kibbles and bits by the time I got there, 'cept your preacher friend. He was so grateful after I staked 'em that he gave me this giant hug . . . and I wasn't wearing a stitch at the time. Just then, the cops stumbled up, and I got arrested. So, guess you could say we have a  _colorful_  history."

The water shut off. "Er, could you hand me a towel?"

"What, no witty remark?" Dean grabbed one of the Target towels and passed it to her, still gazing at the toilet.

She took the towel from his hand and started drying off behind the curtain. "Kinda left all my witty remarks out on my run." She paused for a second and then continued, "You know, we might as well check those bandages of yours while we're both in here."

"Excuse me?"

Faith stepped out of the shower, her towel firmly in place, covering her from armpits to knees. She tapped Dean on the shoulder to get his attention. "Look, if you're hunting something in town, and this is going to turn into a business thing, we should probably get down to comparing notes and making plans. And if we're going out after the Big Bad, those scabs on your knees are going to need more Neosporin. So. . ."

Dean met her gaze. "Fancy putting some clothes on first?"

The Slayer laughed. "This distracting you?" She held her hands up in a show of innocence. The towel slipped down an inch. "Okay, okay. Clothes, here I come." She ducked out the bathroom door, returning two minutes later in jeans and a UC Sunnydale t-shirt. "Better?"

"Much." The hunter attempted to pull his shirt over his head, but stopped, wincing.

"Want a hand?"

"You have no pity, do you?"

She grinned, a smile that was all teeth and very predatory. "Sit down." A nod indicated the toilet seat.

It was easiest not to argue, so Dean sat. He forced himself to be still as she helped him with the shirt. Rolling up the legs of his jeans past the bandages proved to be impossible, and so they had to come off.

There was a difference, he was noticing quickly, between Faith the man-eater and Faith the Slayer. The first would definitely have been doing some objectifying right about now. The second only seemed to see his wounds.

"So, let's go through last night's casualties, shall we?" Faith pulled the gauze pad free from Dean's right knee. "Here. You can take care of these on your own." She set a wet washcloth, the antibiotic ointment, and a fresh box of jumbo-sized band-aids on the bathroom counter. "You, drunk. Three bikers, also drunk. End result, two badly scraped knees, a nasty cut on your forehead, possibly two cracked ribs, and a set of bruises more colorful than a pack of Skittles. Inhale. Tell me where it hurts."

Dean took a deep breath. "Here. And here." He pointed to a particularly purple patch on his left side.

Faith whistled. "Glad I stocked up on supplies today. Okay, point again? Good. Now, exhale."

Beginning just above the first painful rib, Faith wrapped athletic bandages all the way around Dean's chest three times. She then wrapped in between the two ribs and below the second one. After tying off the cloth strips, she turned her attention to the ropy scar criss-crossing his torso, immediately superior to the bandages.

"Where'd you get this?"

"Wendigo." At her look of confusion, Dean added, "Cannibal spirit thing. Got me when I was a teenager."

"Oh." Faith traced the scar gently with two fingers. "Looks like a bitch."

He smiled. "Hurt like one, too."

"And these bruises?" She touched a widespread yellow bruise on his upper back.

"Ghost. Threw me down a staircase."

"Sucks."

"Mmhmm." This wasn't really something he wanted to talk about, so Dean turned the tables. "How 'bout you? You got any interesting scars?"

"A couple." She pulled up her t-shirt to reveal a nasty three-inch scar a few inches above and to the left of her right hipbone.

Dean stared at the mark, shocked by its sheer ugliness.

"Go ahead. Touch it," Faith urged.

He did. Strangely, the scar itself felt cold compared with the warm skin surrounding it. "What happened?"

"Got into a disagreement with a friend." She shrugged. "I lost."

There was definitely something else there, but Dean was smart enough not to press. He pulled his hand back. "Any others?" he asked with a cheesy grin, to change the subject.

Faith smiled her predator smile. "Just this." She pulled her hair back, away from the left side of her neck, and tilted her head at a weird angle. Dean leaned forward to see more clearly. For a moment, he didn't see anything, and then he saw it: two raised red marks halfway up her neck, three inches or so in between them..

"What . . . who bit you?"

The Slayer stepped backwards. She picked up another washcloth from the sink and started tending to the scrape on his forehead. "Vampire," she said after a moment's silence. "Needed to bring him in alive, so I had to dose him with a vampie-downer. Sad part is, you can't really inject those into vamps, you know. Has to be drunk, all nice and freshly mixed, 98.6."

"Ouch. That . . . bites."

She laughed. "It did. Literally." Faith stuck a fresh band-aid smeared with antibiotic ointment on the cut. "There, all done. Now, if we're finished with this little episode of 'You show me yours, I'll show you mine,' let's get you up to speed on the vampire situation."

 


	4. Samaritan, pt 3

Dean was starting to get the idea that Vampire Slayers did things quite differently from hunters. For starters, Faith was extremely nonchalant about the entire thing. Sure, she did prep work, but the urgency Dean associated with his father in particular and hunting in general was lacking.

After opening the giant chest in her bedroom to reveal a stockpile of little bottles of holy water, various edged weapons, and at least a dozen sharply pointed sticks (he was informed that these were "stakes"), she seemed content to sit on her couch and turn on the television. Admittedly, she was also teaching Dean how to make and sharpen a stake. Still, there was something disconcerting about her watching a Passions marathon while holding a giant knife and scraping the edges off of a piece of wood.

When he asked about research, Faith laughed and told him that book research wouldn't help track down a nest of garden-variety vampires. They hadn't done anything interesting enough to be in a book. Dean brought up the murdered bookstore owners. She had an answer for that, too. Andrew and some of the other White Hats in town had swept through the stores from top to bottom, checking the inventory. Everything of an occult nature had been accounted for.

Basically, Faith went against everything Dean had expected from a Slayer. Granted, he had only heard about Slayers that morning, so his expectations hadn't had long to germinate. He wondered if some of the other Slayers in town would be coming on the hunt tonight. The hunter had a sneaking suspicion that Faith did not fit into the general mold.

Around five o'clock in the afternoon, someone knocked on the door. Faith left the couch and went to answer it, checking carefully through the peephole before letting the visitor in. It was a skinny young man with dirty blond hair and a Star Trek T-shirt, carrying a black backpack in one hand and a large, grease-stained, brown paper bag in the other.

"Dean, Andrew. Andrew, Dean." Faith did introductions with a lazy gesture. "Andrew was with me last night when we found you, Dean. Technically, he's my Watcher. In practice, I'm teaching him how to fight his way out of a wet plastic bag. Right, Drew?"

"Faith, your words, like always, are designed to wound. But I see and acknowledge the kindness within."

The hunter's eyes widened. Was this kid for real? Apparently so, for Faith just snorted and shook her head.

"What'd you bring us, Drew?" the Slayer asked, eyeing the paper bag.

Andrew grinned with pride. "Burgers and fries from Ted's down the street. I got two for everyone."

Well. If this kid was the Burger Fairy, Dean could definitely put up with his weird geekiness. The three of them sat down at the kitchen table and dug into the chow. Faith retrieved a giant bottle of ketchup and three beers from the fridge, which the hunter appreciated. In between bites, she quizzed Andrew about someone named "Robin" and the latest update on the vampire nest. Had anyone else managed to pinpoint their location?

"Sorry, Faith," Andrew said with a shrug. "They gave you the assignment, and their involvement's over."

The Slayer rolled her eyes and bit vehemently into her second cheeseburger. "That's crap," she complained around a mouthful of processed grease. "I am really getting tired of this passive aggressive shtick."

Dean stayed quiet. This was Slayer business, which meant it was probably none of his. Faith must have noticed something, however, because she turned to answer his unspoken question.

"There's a passel of Slayers working this Hellmouth," she explained, "all under the direction of a bastard named Robin. He passes along all the crappy stuff that theoretically could be handled by one Slayer to me. Since I'm awesome, I handle it. Solo."

"I help!" Andrew interjected, watching the Slayer warily.

The furrow across Faith's brow softened. "Yes, you do." She glanced at Dean. "You probably think we're all crazy. Hunters usually operate in groups of two or three, yeah? I bet that cuts down on the drama. Slayers? We're, uh, what's the word you like so much, Andrew?"

"Melodramatic."

"Right. Slayers are melodramatic. And the people they get to be Watchers and Scoobies? Even worse. A 'Scoobie' is a Slayer-sidekick, by the way. Colloquialism."

"Mmm. So, Faith, do you have a plan?" Andrew asked innocently.

Faith took a deep swig from her beer and set it back on the table. She kept her fingers curled around the cold glass. "We've got a Slayer, a white belt in karate, and a hunter with cracked ribs. Hunting a nest of vamps that could have anything from six to twelve bloodsuckers. They're new to the city, and I haven't met any of them yet. There can only be one plan."

The Watcher-in-training groaned. "Not that one. I hate that one." To Dean, in an aside, "She always goes for that one."

Dean had a feeling he was missing something. "What one?"

The newfound excitement brimming in Faith's brown eyes was positively indecent. "The one where I play bait."

"It really isn't fair to anyone," Andrew answered Dean's confusion. "And it only works when the vampires haven't heard of her. She plays damsel in distress until they come after her. Usually without backup."

"Isn't that kind of dangerous?" Dean wondered, unable to keep his mouth shut.

Grinning mischievously, Faith laughed. "That's entirely the point."

* * *

The sun had begun to set by the time they finished dinner, and Faith disappeared into her bedroom to change clothes. Andrew looked sympathetically at Dean and shrugged. "Sometimes," he said confidentially, "you just have to go with it."

Dean nodded, feeling awkward. He wished his dad would have answered the phone earlier that day. He wondered if John knew anything about Slayers and how he would have handled this situation. At the moment, there was nothing for it but to follow Andrew's advice and just go with it.

Moments later, the Slayer emerged, all "baited" up. She had traded her jeans for a pair of skintight red leather pants and a silvery, spangled top that left her midriff and half of her back bare. She had also caked on eye makeup and dark, red lipstick. To complete the ensemble, Faith wore thigh high black boots.

"Good?" she asked the room at large.

"Very slutty," Andrew said approvingly. "For what it's worth, you look like an incredibly expensive hooker."

Faith rolled her eyes at him. "Thanks. What do you think, Dean?"

"Can you fight in that?"

Looking up from stuffing weapons into Andrew's backpack, the Slayer smiled, "Oh, yeah."

Dean frowned. "Is anyone actually going to attack you?"

Her smile widened. "We set the scene for 'em, properly, and they won't be able to help themselves. Okay? Yeah? Let's roll out."

The eclectic hunting party piled into Andrew's green Honda and drove across town. They parked in front of the same bar as the night before. Andrew pulled a detailed map of the city out of his backpack, a map covered in scribbles and highlighter. He and Faith conferred briefly, and then Faith climbed out of the car.

"Come on, Dean," she called, walking towards the alleyway. "Let's go."

Dean followed her. "What about him?" He nodded his head towards Andrew, who was still sitting in the car.

Faith shrugged, proceeding rapidly down the alley.. "He'll go inside, talk to the locals, get some onion rings, and keep his phone on loud. It's how we work."

"Back-up doesn't really work if it's ten minutes away when someone chomps down on you." Upon reflection, perhaps that was an unwise remark, given Faith's vampire scars. To his relief, however, she merely laughed.

"Andrew's good back-up, yeah, but not necessary on a simple track-and-stake operation. Besides, that's what you're here for, right?" She slipped her hand between Dean's arm and his side and held onto his bicep.

The hunter stepped away from her, pulling his arm loose. "What are you -?"

Lowering her voice, Faith closed the distance between them. "Nothing is going to come after us if your body language keeps screaming 'hunter.' So you can hold my hand or put your arm around me or whatever, but you need to start acting distracted, not wary."

Displaying more reluctance than he actually felt, Dean put his arm across Faith's shoulders. She fit herself against his side and reached up to hold his hand.

"There. You look less dangerous already." she murmured. "Now, there's something I didn't want to talk about in front of Andrew. Best not to scare the children, and all." Her free arm wrapped itself around Dean's waist, brushing against the revolver tucked into the back of his waistband. "Why are you still carrying your gun? Guns don't work on vampires."

"Habit," he answered shortly.

Faith chuckled deep in her throat. "You know, Kansas, I'm starting to think you might be just as effed up as I am."

The couple rounded the corner and continued their stroll through some of the creepiest alleys Dean had ever seen. There was trash and puddles ofsome oily black liquid everywhere. The hunter expected someone to jump out at them from every doorway. His spidey senses were tingling, and his muscles tensed, following suit.

"Easy, tiger," Faith purred. "No vampires yet. We're taking the long way 'round. Starting with the least likely streets, working our way to the most likely."

"Right . . . Can I ask a question?"

"As long as you keep your voice down and relax those broad shoulders of yours, sure."

She didn't mean to be irritating, Dean reminded himself. Probably. He forced some of the tension out of his neck and shoulders. Tried to think about how he would be feeling if he were actually wandering around the city with his girlfriend tucked under his arm. Trouble was, Dean was too smart to ever take a girl in the dark through monster territory on a date. Relaxing when he knew vampires were in the area was almost impossible.

"How come you're on the outs with the other Slayers?"

A sharp inhale of breath. "That's kind of personal, isn't it?"

"Trying to suss out if I can trust you."

This comment was met with an angry laugh. "Dean. If I wanted to do something nasty to you, I wouldn't bother with all this foreplay."

"Is that what this is?"

Another angry laugh, and the hand around his waist moved to press painfully against his cracked ribs. "I was trying to be nice and help out a fellow professional. Show you the vampire ropes. You want out, you can take off, and good riddance."

"Now who's not relaxed?" Dean regretted his snark a moment later when Faith poked his ribs a second time. "Ouch. Can you stop that?"

Her hand lowered again. They continued patrolling in silence for several blocks until Dean ran out of patience.

"Faith, do  _you_  trust  _me?"_  Maybe he could get his point across if he approached this from the opposite direction.

She didn't even hesitate. "Of course not."

"And you're okay hunting with someone you don't trust?"

_"Dean."_

He looked down and met her amused gaze. "What?"

_"Duck."_

His body reacted before his brain could catch up with it, dodging to the side and dropping into a crouch as a snarling something leapt past him and landed on top of Faith. The Slayer went down beneath a creature with weird ridges all over its forehead and the nastiest pair of yellow fangs Dean had ever seen. Faith got one hand around the vampire's throat, holding it at bay while she dug a stake out of her boot with the other. Then it was all over. The stake slid, smooth as butter, into the vampire's upper rib cage, and it exploded into a shower of dust. It had taken her less than thirty seconds.

"You okay?" she asked Dean, flipping back to her feet.

Ashamed of the fact that he hadn't come to her rescue, Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. You?"

"Five by five." Faith spun on her heel, doing a quick 360 survey of the alley. "Sh-t. Looks like they found us. We've got company."

Dean glanced over his shoulder to see seven solid shadows merging out of the darkness around them. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but he counted four males and three females, all dressed in the same type of grungy clothes, their faces all fangs and protruding brow ridges. The hunter moved to be at Faith's back, keeping his eyes on the vamps at all times.

"Slayer," hissed the vampire's leader, a dark-haired male with the build of a lumberjack.

"Yup," Faith confirmed, doing a little shimmy to shake the dust off her outfit. "Are you the one who's been eating homeless veterans? How very unpatriotic of you." Under her breath, she whispered to Dean, "How many of 'em are you good for?"

"Uh…"

"I'll leave you two to start off with." Returning her attention to vampires, Faith continued in a louder tone, "So, boys, who wants to start?"

A redheaded female vampire stepped forward to stand beside her leader. "Who's the new boyfriend? Another vampire?"

"Nah, it's the blonde who sleeps with vampires," the leader chuckled, as his followers fanned out to encircle their prey. "What's your name, Slayer girl? You look like one of the newbies. Should have known better than to bring your date into our territory."

Faith tapped her stake against her leg in an easy cadence. "Name's Faith, kids. Now, and I'm only going to ask this one more time, who wants to start?"

"A real Slayer," came the greedy whisper from one of the vampire henchmen. "Imagine, killing the last true Slayer of the bloodline!"

"Talk about street cred," purred the redhead.

"I'm so over this," Faith grumbled to Dean. Then she laughed. "Little above your pay grade, boys. Don't know if you bottom-feeders are high enough up on the food chain to have heard what happened to Angelus the last time he went after me. I shoved a soul right up his as-"

One of the female vampires, a full-figured blonde, took a couple of steps forward. "Robert, can I have the boy? He's awfully pretty. Looks like fun."

"Hey," the Slayer growled. "Pretty boy is mine." She lashed out with a roundhouse kick and caught the blonde in the stomach, knocking her off her feet. The female vampire hit the ground in front of Dean, who staked her.

Two other vampires rushed Faith from opposite sides, planning to catch her between them. She darted forward, letting them crash into each other. As they bounced backwards from the impact, Faith shoved her stake through the ribs of first one, and then the second. Tossing her head, the Slayer turned to the other four vampires.

"Okay? Who's next?"

Robert, the vampire leader grinned at her. "You will live to regret that, Slayer. Just before you die. Veronica?"

The redhead, who was likely second-in-command, ran at the Slayer, snarling. Faith sidestepped her easily, only to be caught in a bear hug from another lumberjack type vamp who had snuck up on that side. The Slayer squirmed, stomping down on the vampire's instep with her boots and slamming the back of her skull into his chin, but the lumberjack's grip did not loosen an inch.

At the same time, the redhead doubled back and attacked Dean. She jumped onto his back, trapping his throat in her elbow and compressing his windpipe. Dean started seeing spots. He twisted from side to side, but the vampire would not be thrown off.

Unwilling to let things go sideways, Faith suddenly collapsed in the thug vampire's grip. Caught by surprise, the vampire relaxed his hold. Just by a fraction, but that was enough. The Slayer jerked loose and had six inches of wood buried in his side before you could say "jackknife." She didn't even pause long enough to watch him turn to ash. Instead, Faith pulled her spare stake out of her other boot.

"Dean, go left!" she ordered.

As she expected, Dean went right instead. The redheaded vamp was slung slightly to the left, giving Faith an opening. She leapt forward and rammed her stake through the vampire's back, just below and to the right of where she guessed the left scapula to be. And then Dean was choking on ash, rubbing his throat, and stumbling towards Faith. She retrieved her stake from the pile of dust and put a hand on his shoulder.

"You okay?"

The hunter nodded, but Faith had already moved on. She whirled to meet Robert, who managed to land several hard blows on the Slayer's arms and chest before she swept his feet out from under him with a low sweep kick. Faith straddled the vampire on the ground, pinning his arms on either side with her knees.

"Talk time," she ordered. "What are you doing in Cleveland? And why the occult stores?"

"Like I'd tell you," the vampire scoffed.

Faith whipped a knife out of nowhere and pressed the blade up against Robert's throat. "Oh, I think I can persuade you."

Finally getting his cough in control, Dean was just in time to see the seventh vampire sneaking up from behind Faith.  _Oh, no, you don't,_  he thought grimly, and then Dean was running, tackling the thing to the nasty alley gravel, punching its bloody face in. Even though there were two stakes in his jacket pockets, Dean kept hitting the vampire, barely aware of the fact his own knuckles were bleeding.

The next thing he knew, Faith was shaking him by the shoulders and shoving something into his hand. "Dean. Just stake the poor bastard already."

Dean's hand closed on the stake of its own accord and moved automatically to impale the vampire. It turned to dust, and the hunter slumped to the ground.

But Faith was still holding onto him, and she tugged gently at his shoulders until he got to his feet. Then her hands were patting him down, checking for any new injuries. "You all right? You kind of lost it for a minute there."

"I, uh." Words weren't really working for Dean, so he took a moment to stare at the Slayer, who had somehow managed to stake six vampires without messing up her clothing or makeup. "The title's kinda accurate, isn't it?"

"What title?" Having decided that Dean didn't show signs of impending death, Faith started walking back the way they had come.

He hurried to catch up with her. "Vampire Slayer. That was . . . I've never seen anything like that before." There. That sounded better than ' _That was brutal_ ' or ' _You're an eff-ing killing machine, but I still think you're hot as hell._ '

"You did pretty good for a first-timer."

"Thanks." They walked together in companionable silence, arms brushing every half-dozen steps or so.

"Did you mean what you said back there?" asked Dean when they were almost back to the bar.

"Huh?"

"Quote, 'Pretty Boy is mine,' unquote?"

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."


	5. Samaritan, pt 4

They found Andrew, still in the car, listening to a beat-up yellow Walkman with giant black headphones and scribbling on a notepad. Faith knocked on the driver's window glass once, startling the younger man. She opened the door and read over his shoulder.

"Spock and Kirk again, Drew? What have I told you about fanzines on the job?"

Andrew blushed but held his ground. "For your information, Faith, fanzines are a thing of the past. Fan  _fiction_  is all moving to the internet now."

"Of course it is," she muttered, unconvinced. Shutting the car door firmly, she slunk around to shotgun while Dean slid into the Honda's backseat. "So," adjusting her spangly top, "what else you got for us?"

Stowing his notepad, the young man grabbed his city map and flipped it open. "Robin called. They've got five – no, six – new vampires scheduled to rise tonight, all in Calvary Cemetery, which makes things easy. Elizabeth, Jackie, and Sophie are tackling that one. Um, Violet got into a tangle with a Fyarl demon, and apparently there's a werewolf running around near the Cleveland Clinic, but other than that, it's all quiet."

Wondering if he'd heard correctly, Dean leaned forward into the front seat. "What makes a demon feral?"

"Fee-arrrrrl demon," Andrew rolled his r's obnoxiously. "Fairly unintelligent foot soldier demons. Orange skin, sticky-outy-shoulder bones, curling horns like a big-horned sheep. Not quite as fluffy though. Fairly stupid, but their mucus can paralyze people – like Medusa, just with snot instead of eye contact . . ."

"Orange  _what?"_

Faith provided a quick explanation about the different types of demons she had encountered. Turns out, it was a little like the whole vampire wolf-coyote thing. Apparently, not all demons were from Hell – or even a hell dimension – and very few of them actually possessed people. Their blood wasn't pure enough, or they came from the wrong dimension, or something. It was rather confusing.

Satisfied that she had thoroughly muddied the waters of understanding, the Slayer asked Andrew, "So. What went down with Vi? Does she need a rescue?"

Andrew squinted at an illegible note on the map. "She was partnering with Rona, who was smart enough to have a silver knife on her – they were originally tracking the werewolf. Anyway, the Fyarl demon sneezed, Vi got coated in boogies and went down like a rock, but Rona snuck up on the Fyarl and stabbed it. Adios, demon. Rona took Vi back to headquarters, got all of the snot washed off. According to the lore, the paralysis should wear off in a couple of hours. Luckily, Violet didn't breathe any of it in, or we'd be heading to the hospital to see her in the ICU right now."

"Hmmn. Not bad. And the werewolf?"

"Robin and Amanda are on its trail. They've been offline for the last hour or so – if I don't hear anything in thirty minutes, we probably need to go after them."

"Brilliant." The Slayer slumped back in her seat. "Dean, what's your take on werewolves?"

The hunter smiled, eyes gleaming. "Haven't hunted one since I was a kid. Sounds like fun."

"We don't kill werewolves, usually. We tranq 'em, wait till morning, have the 'talk' about their nighttime recreational choices. That cool with you?"

Dean's smile became chilly. "Depends. Does that stop them eating people?"

She shrugged. "Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. If it doesn't, then . . . then we put them down. Undesirable, but sometimes necessary."

"Okay. Sounds good to me. Andrew, you mentioned vampires scheduled to rise. What exactly does that mean?"

"If you keep track of people who've died of exsanguination or who had vampire-associated symptoms, you can predict when they're going to climb out of their graves. Makes staking vampires before they kill anyone a little easier," Andrew explained.

"Oh. Awesome." Dean sprawled out across the back seat. "Is this what a usual night is like for you guys? Taking down a nest of vampires, then going out and hunting more?"

Slayer and Watcher-in-training exchanged amused glances. "Something like that," Faith admitted. "Only usually I'm training one of the newbie Slayer how not to become demon chow."

"It's a fairly exhausting job, to be fair," Andrew added. "A lot of the new Slayers are very naïve."

This was an interesting remark, coming from a guy who embodied Dean's vision of the word 'naïve.' "Uh huh," he said noncommittally. "So, what now? More vampires? Or how about a game of pool?"

Faith punched a few buttons on the dashboard and checked the time on the car radio. "Nine-thirty. Let's go play pool. A little trouble would do Andrew some good. Wouldn't it, Drew?"

"Faith, I am honor bound to remind you that your idea of 'a little trouble' is outlawed in fifteen states and heavily prosecuted in six others." He heaved a truly long-suffering sigh. "But sure, let's go in.

* * *

Andrew considered himself quite the budding author. In fact, his innate gift for storytelling expanded past his work for several well-known fanzines to a brief history of the life of Buffy the Slayer of the Vampyrs to a half-finished demon encyclopedia (complete with pictures). He just had a nose for stories, a sixth sense, and a little voice in his head that was constantly commenting on anything the least bit story-worthy.

As he followed Faith and Dean into the grungy inner city bar, this little voice was practically singing. There was a story to be found here, it promised. Something epic and romantic – or maybe just epic and tragic. The air about the hunter and the Slayer was simply rife with story potential.

It was there in the way Dean held the door open while checking out Faith's leather pants and in the way she eyed him when they were ordering drinks at the bar. It was there when she challenged him to a game of darts – and lost by a hairsbreadth. It surged whenever the two of them made direct eye contact and dropped to almost nothing when a call came in about Robin's successful takedown of the werewolf.

After purchasing his own drink, Andrew retired to a corner table and slurped diet Coke, making hasty notes in an Elvish script. Tengwar wasn't really that much slower to write in than English. Plus, it carried the added advantage of being unintelligible to Faith. Although, given her developing habit of stealing his Lord of the Rings fan mags when he wasn't looking, that advantage might not last too long.

_Here you have them,_  he scribbled.  _Two apex predators from two different yet equal food chains. Meeting properly for the first time, but there is a dark and dangerous history hidden between them. Both possess secrets, which they keep closer than the Crown Jewels._

He glanced across the dim room to the wobbly pool table where Dean was hustling a game of pool while Faith flirted distractingly with his opponent.

_Although both are aware of their deep attraction, they refuse to acknowledge its presence. They fear that giving into their passions will destroy any chance of a blossoming relationship. Both so lonely, both a little crazy, they worry that letting go will result in complete immolation. Content to risk their lives on a nightly basis, they are too afraid of rejection to risk their hearts._

Feeling happy about this intro, Andrew started a pros and cons list about his new idea. Pros: some seriously hot nights, adorably angry brunette children with beautiful eyes, less having to deal with pissed-off Faith. Cons: a potential Bonnie/Clyde situation, dealing with the fallout if it went down the toilet.

Now, part of growing up was learning to recognize one's own faults, and he would be the first to admit his tendency to jump to conclusions. Perhaps it was a little soon to be thinking of fearsome brunette Slayer-hunter babies, but Andrew's storyteller instinct was too strong to be ignored.

Thankfully, Andrew was smart enough to realize that the best way to proceed was to leave things well enough alone. And so he watched, drinking his way through three cans of diet Coke, taking notes and adding bits of garbled "what-ifs" as Dean hustled his way into a wallet of cash. Interestingly enough, both Dean and Faith stopped after a couple of PBRs.

To his chagrin, the Watcher trainee had forgotten that Coke was a diuretic. Too soon, his bladder was uncomfortably full. Andrew ignored it. If he went to the bathroom, he was bound to miss something interesting. It was one of the unwritten laws that governed storytellers. Which meant that he was just going to have to hold it until they got back to the apartment.

It was a Thursday night, and so the number of people foolish enough to let the dangerous looking drifter trick them out of their money was rather low. Around eleven, Faith and Dean waltzed over to Andrew's table, looking a little too pleased with themselves.

"You ready to head home?" Faith slid into the booth next to Andrew, jostling his elbow.

"Yeah." Andrew carefully flipped the top page over his Elvish musings. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

* * *

The drive back across town was surprisingly quiet. Both Faith and Dean spent the majority of the time staring out the windows at the city as it flashed past. They were just turning into the apartment complex when the Vampire Slayer announced, "Dean's gonna crash with us for the night."

"I  _can_  get a motel, you know," Dean tapped his newly fattened wallet.

"Nah. You'll need help taping those ribs back up after you shower." Faith tipped her head backwards and sniffed loudly. "And since you smell like booze, sweat, and the inside of a crematorium, I'd say a shower's mandatory."

Shifting the car into park, Andrew unbuckled his seatbelt and bolted for the apartment. He did not want to be the bug on the wall for  _this_  ensuing conversation. "Bathroom," he called over his shoulder, digging his spare keys out of his pocket as he ran.

"I do need to be hitting the road pretty soon," the hunter drawled slowly, closing the back door of the Honda and leaning against the car frame.

Faith propped herself up next to him. "Twelve hours more can't hurt." She looked up into his eyes, trying to suss out whether they were green or hazel. "Stay."

"Is that a proposition?" Dean asked with exaggerated eyebrow movements.

She grinned. "Sorry, pretty boy. No dice. I've got this nonnegotiable rule about sleeping with business partners."

"Not even for a wounded warrior who just finished off his first vampires?" He dialed up the fake hurt in his voice.

The Slayer laughed. "Not even then. 'S nothing personal." She gave him a very pointed once-over, her eyes dragging up and down the length of his body, to explain just how not-personal the rule was.

"Okay." Dean could understand that. Something she'd said earlier caught his attention. "Wait. Business partners?"

"Here." Faith very proprietarily reached into the hunter's back pocket and withdrew his phone. She started punching buttons. "This is my actual phone number. You hunting something in the area, or you need advice on vampires, or you ever find yourself sitting in that pretty car of yours, cold and lonely, on some dark road in the middle of nowhere, you give me a call. Maybe I'll pick up."

"Cool. I might do that."

"Great."

"Listen," the hunter said after a minute's silence, "I really should be going. Gotta rendezvous with my hunting partner."

"A girl?" Faith asked, a little too quickly.

Dean smirked. "Nah. My dad."

She looked awkwardly down at her boots. "Oh. That's cool."

"But, hey, thanks." Faith glanced up, quizzical. "Thanks for the  _educational_  day."

"Anytime. You, uh, you got everything?"

"Packed up the Impala earlier."

"You plan ahead."

"Yep. Well," Dean flashed his knee-buckling smile, complete with charming, roguish wink, "you take care now. And I'll see you around."

Faith nodded, then waited until he was halfway in the Impala before speaking. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You come back around, I might consider breaking that rule of mine." With that parting shot and a final grin, she disappeared into the apartment.

 


	6. Interstate Communication, pt 1

**September 5** **th** **, 2003, somewhere along I-80.**

Nothing but the night and an empty highway in front of him, zipping past belabored semis and SUVs full of families with children. Life was  _great_ _._  Metallica blasting on the stereo, his dad and a hunt waiting in Nevada, Iowa already behind him with three states and thirteen hours to go. Life was  _fantastic_ _._  Pulling over in Kearney to grab a couple of burgers, some gas, and more snacks. Life was  _awesome_.

Going to switch cassettes to Styx, only to have the Metallica stick. Tugging a little harder, until the cassette came free, but was now spilling its magnetic tape insides all over the place, like a man with a gut wound, trying and failing to hold in its intestines. Life  _sucked._

Dean cursed his way steadily through the next five miles, the Styx tape abandoned in the passenger seat next to the destroyed Metallica. It stung like a personal injury. Music was ruined forever now – or at least for another hour and change.

Fifteen miles further down the road, the mocking silence became too much. Grabbing his scratched cell phone from the console, he scrolled through the contacts, finally finding the number he was looking for. Dean hit the call button.

Six rings later, a breathless voice answered. "Hello? Hang on a minute." He heard a series of thuds and grunts, a muffled whimpering, an exhaled "Ha!" and then the voice returned, panting, "Yeah? This's Faith."

"Er . . . this a bad time?"

"That you, Dean?" Another heavy exhale and the gentle clink of an earring against the phone. "Sorry about that. Just had to take care of a vampire." This was followed by the steady staccato of boot heels on asphalt as Faith started walking somewhere.

"You answer the phone when you're on a hunt?"

The Slayer chuckled quietly. "I prefer the word patrolling, ya know? Looking for sketchy business. Or, in this case, strolling through cemeteries, waiting for vamps to rise. I'm two for two tonight. Three more to go . . . What's up with you?"

"Nebraska to Nevada. Might stopover in Salt Lake City, if the traffic gets too annoying. Utah drivers  _suck_."

"Hmm. Never been through Utah." A rustle and a swish.

"What was that?"

"Oh, I'm just sitting pretty on this nice headstone, here, until Mr. Stephen F. Jung decides to crawl out of his coffin and come play . . . Unusual, that."

Dean didn't quite compute. "What's unusual?"

Drumming her heels against the granite stone, Faith took a moment to reply. "What? Oh, the guy was buried this morning – it usually takes a couple of weeks to a month for people to put up proper grave markers. Hah. How weird is it that I know that?"

"Depends who you're asking. Your average civilian would probably give that a seven on the weirdness scale."

"And you, Mr. Non-Average Civilian?"

"Doesn't even register."

"Hang on," she said abruptly, setting the phone down. When she next spoke, her voice came from far away, "Hold tight, Dean. This'll just take a second."

Addressing someone else, the Slayer continued, "Stephen, right? Sorry to bother you when you're still . . . adjusting, but do you remember who bit you?"

The response was too quiet to hear, a low, incomprehensible rumble.

"Super. Thanks for the info. And, uh, hasta luego."

Something – most likely the newly risen Stephen – groaned. Seconds later, Faith's voice returned to the phone. "Three for three," she announced cheerfully. "Did you hear any of that? I put you on speaker."

"You staking the poor devil? Yeah, I caught it. Know what is weird, Faith?"

"What?" The sound of boots on asphalt became prominent again as the Slayer migrated to a different part of the cemetery.

Hesitant, Dean paused. He wanted to phrase this properly. "You seem to treat the whole Slaying thing kinda casually."

Faith's shrug was audible. "You know what, Dean? I try not to sweat the small stuff. Life's too short, your average vampire is too stupid, and all that jazz. Come around next time there's an apocalypse in Cleveland, though, and you'll see me serious."

"The  _next_  time there's an apocalypse? Isn't the Apocalypse supposed to be a one-time deal?"

"Mmm, you'd be surprised. They used to get 'em once a year or so back in Sunnydale. To be honest, I'm kinda waiting for something big and nasty to pop up. I've been here since June, and it is way too quiet."

"Five vampires in one night is your definition of quiet?" The question was tinged with shock.

"It's a decent-sized city, Cleveland. Situated on a Hellmouth, too – that's a freaking big hellgate in hunter parlance."

The hunter snorted. " _Parlance_? Speaking of nerds, how's Andrew?"

"Good. I think. He's relocating to Rome in a month or two. Apparently the group of Slayers out there needs some Watching."

"Huh. Is he going to be able to handle that? I thought you were still training him?"

Faith sniggered. "I'm kind of like the Wild West version of a Slayer. If a Watcher can hack it with me, they can handle pretty much anyone . . . I tend to go through Watchers the way some girls go through shoes. But I guess you could say I'm reforming lately."

"If this is you reforming, I'd like to see you let loose. Sounds like it might get interesting."

All of the humor disappeared from Faith's voice. "You really wouldn't," she said coolly. "Trust me on this one."

"Okay. Sorry. Didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not ups - hold that thought."

Dean listened to the noise of what he was coming to classify as "Vampire Slayage." After the sound of some heavy blows hitting home, a loud crash as something tumbled to the ground, and a high, female scream that he could barely identify as "not-Faith's," the Slayer returned to the phone.

"Four down, one to go . . . Anyway, Dean, seen any interesting movies lately?"

* * *

**September 20** **th** **, ShopRite grocery store, Cleveland, Ohio**

Faith Lehane was being seduced by the mundane. And she was trying very, very hard to keep it a secret. Like most seductions, it had started out quite innocent. After all, it made sense for the Watcher's Council to provide a modest one-bedroom apartment for their senior Slayer. Given Faith's limited funds and strong preference for privacy, it followed naturally that she cared for it all on her own.

Suddenly, Faith was being introduced to an entire vocabulary – really, an entire world – that she had never particularly thought about before. Liquid versus powder detergent. Vacuums where there was actually a difference between the hard floor and carpet settings. Cooking meals that didn't involve Hamburger Helper or the microwave.  _Organic produce_.

To her utter disbelief, she enjoyed it. Cleaning up after herself, making sure that the laundry was done, the car was running, and the refrigerator was filled with non-moldy food. For so long, she had been following someone else's orders or living on an institution's schedule. It was absolutely beautiful to be in control again.

It would never do for Robin and the Slayerettes to discover that the Slayer was becoming domesticated, so she did her best to keep her extracurricular activities under wraps. Conferring with Giles over late night phone calls about receiving her GED, strong-arming Angel into using his evil lawyer firm to get her sentence changed to parole, meeting with her parole officer and being relatively honest with him. Faith found herself studying algebra in the afternoons and hitting the grocery store more often than strictly necessary to procure ingredients for some weird recipe Andrew had found online.

What this meant, she supposed, was that she was growing up. Taking another step into the real world and out of the insanity that had been Sunnydale. Actually making friends – if one counted Andrew, which she did, and Dean, which she was still on the fence about. It was . . . nice.

Faith jerked out of her inner musings and concentrated more forcefully on the case of vegetables in front of her. Broccoli or cauliflower? Or carrots? She puttered around the produce section, trying to find a bag of salad greens that wasn't too wilted and slimy. At last locating a satisfactory specimen, she tossed it into her cart along with the carrots, broccoli, and tomatoes.

Speaking of Dean . . . the Slayer reached into her jeans pocket for her cell phone. While debating between oranges or apples, she tapped the phone unconsciously. Oh, well. What the hell. It couldn't hurt. Might even help.

She found his number from the call a few weeks' previous and punched 'call.' Holding the phone between her ear and shoulder, she ran her hands over the navel oranges until she had picked four decent ones. Just as she was twirling the plastic produce bag and tying it shut, someone answered.

"Hullo?"

"Hey, Dean."

"Faith?" He sounded surprised. Hmm. Interesting.

"How're kicks?" Faith winced, retreating from a very nice quart of strawberries. People as awkward as she didn't deserve strawberries. "Er. I mean, how did the hunt go? Nevada, right?"

The hunter snickered. "Kicks are good, yeah. The hunt turned out okay."

"You gonna give me any juicy details? Ghost, demon, what was it?"

"Ghost. People were wanting to reopen this abandoned silver mine near Rochester, which was closed after – you guessed it – a shaft collapsed, killing this old guy who owned the mine back in the '20s. Anyway, in the last two months, three of the main people involved in the project died mysteriously – locked rooms, the whole shebang."

"Sounds like Miner forty-Niner."

"Ha. Yep, exactly."

"How'd you stop him?" Faith wheeled her cart down the cereal aisle. She was almost out of Frosted Flakes, which could not be allowed to happen.

Dean coughed. "That was the hard part. See, he was still buried in the shaft."

"No. Effing. Way. You didn't."

"What are you thinking?" She could hear his smile.

The Slayer reached up on tiptoe to grab her Frosted Flakes. "I can see two possibilities. One, you go in during the daylight, try to excavate the shaft and find the bones."

"And two?"

Conscious of the soccer mom standing behind her, who had been trying to convince her toddler that they really did not need those Lucky Charms and was now staring, Faith lowered her voice, "Two, you have some fun, blow the whole thing to smithereens, then see if Miner Forty-Niner shows his face again. Right?"

Sugary cereal now securely in the basket, Faith retreated. Maybe it was best not to discuss explosions in front of small children.

"You're catching on. You ever hunted a ghost before?"

"Not exactly," she replied absent-mindedly, still keeping her voice down. Was it two percent or one percent milk that she had gotten last time? Crap. She hated when she forgot the important things. "Slayers don't usually mess with ghosts. The closest I've ever come was this thing that could impersonate any dead person in the world, but it wasn't really a ghost. Ended up destroying the town to stop it."

The man frowned. "Why are you whispering?"

"I'm in the grocery store, and I don't want to get kicked out before I hit the frozen section."

After fifteen seconds' silence, "You call me while you're  _grocery shopping_?"

"What? Half of the people who are here by themselves are on their phones. Question – which one's better: two percent or one percent milk fat?"

"Two percent," Dean replied shortly.

"That's what I was thinking." Faith opened the cooler door and grabbed a gallon. Nestling it into her cart carefully to avoid squashing the produce, she continued towards the eggs. "Let's see, I still need eggs, butter, probably some lunch meat . . . I already got bread and peanut butter and jam . . ."

"What kind of jam?" The question was automatic.

"Apricot. I'm doing this new thing where I buy a different flavor every time. You know, there are so many options in the world, besides grape and strawberry. I had no idea…"

"A Vampire Slayer who geeks out about jam?"

Midway through checking a carton of eggs for cracks, Faith chuckled. "And that's one of my normal habits."

"I can only imagine." He hesitated, then asked one of the questions on his mind, "You always this excited about grocery shopping?"

"Mmm, well, I never really used to do it before. Not properly, I mean. I used to be a fast-food, convenience store, microwavable burritos and beer type of girl. Since I'm almost twenty-three now, I figured that I might as well start thinking about my arteries. I guess it's new? And that's why I like it?"

"Okay. Just curious. Speaking of, did you call for any, uh, particular reason?"

"Now that you mention it, what do you know about ghouls? I found some tooth-marked bones and gnawed-on bodies last night in places they really shouldn't've been. Did a fair bit of research this morning, but no luck."

"Excuse me, young lady!"

Dammit. It was the soccer mom from earlier, covering the ears of her precious toddler and glaring balefully at Faith. Apparently, the deli counter wasn't a safe place for Slayer-hunter discussions, either.

Faith sighed. "Crap. Dean, I'm going to have to call you back."

 


	7. Interstate Communication, pt 2

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: October 15, 2003 at 1:30 a.m.  
** **Subject: Pagan Gods?  
** **Attached: chickseamonster1 . jpg**

Hey. What do you know about pagan gods? Weird sh-t is happening around here. Not having much luck with the books. Did find this, though. It's no Busty Asian Beauty, but there's some definite skin involved.

Faith

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 16, 2003 at 12:15 p.m.  
** **Subject: Re: Pagan Gods**

Damn, girl. Where did you find that creepy-ass picture? I've never gone up against a pagan god. Word is they can be pretty nasty. Take care of yourself.

Dean

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: October 16, 2003 at 12:30 p.m.  
** **Subject: Occult Woodcuts**

Thanks. Stayed up all night reading through old books. Eyes are blurry. Feels worse than a hangover. Still don't know what the Big Bad is. Only conclusion I came to is that whoever compiled this lore crap hired a seriously whacked-out illustrator. That thing I sent you? Barely the tip of the Titanic iceberg.

Faith

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 15, 2003 at 12:35 p.m.  
** **Subject: You Sound Tired**

Isn't there a whole squad of you guys? Farm the research out and get some sleep.

Dean

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: October 16, 2003 at 12:40 p.m.  
** **Subject: Look at Thisssssss  
** **Attached: nakeddemonything2 . jpg**

Check thisssss out. Why do books always show naked monsters? I like never fight naked monsters. Do you hunt naked monsters? I want to fight naked monsters.

Faith

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 16, 2003 at 12:45 p.m.  
** **Subject: Get Offline and Go to Bed.**

See subject.

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: October 16, 2003 at 12:50 p.m.  
** **Subject: This Means War**

Don't tell me what to do. See subject line. I challenge you to a battle of occult woodcuts. Whoever can find the worst one before Halloween wins. You're already two down, pretty boy. Better get to work.

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 16, 2003 at 1:00 p.m.  
** **Subject: You're On  
** **Attached: ladansedesabbat . jpg**

Just . . . try not to get anyone killed?

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: October 16, 2003 at 1:05 p.m.  
** **Subject: Awwwww**

Is the big bad hunter concerned about the wittle bittle Slayer?

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 16, 2003 at 1:10 p.m.  
** **Subject: You're Losing It**

And, no.

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: October 16, 2003 at 1:15 p.m.  
** **Subject: Good Night**

Andrew called. Someone else got a hit. We're going after the thing tonight. Guess I can sleep now?

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 16, 2003 at 1:20 p.m.  
** **Subject: Re: Good Night**

Good luck. Be careful out there.

. . .

* * *

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 23, 2003 at 11:00 p.m.  
** **Subject: Prepare to be Beaten  
** **Attached: wereattackcranach . jpg**

This is why I don't like werewolves. How'd it go with your pagan god?

Dean

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: October 25, 2003 at 10:22 a.m.  
** **Subject: Sorry About Delay**

Nice one. Turns out it wasn't a pagan god after all but some kind of water spirit come out of Lake Erie. The damn thing liked to drag its victims back into the water – and guess who ended up playing bait? Long story short, I've been sleeping and blowing my nose for about a week straight – and I'm still shivering.

Faith

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 25, 2003 at 9:45 p.m.  
** **Subject: Impale Anyone Lately?  
** **Attached:** **therealvladtepes . jpg**

That blows. Lake spirits are the worst. You ok now? I'm following up on some disappearances in Connecticut. Parking here is a bitch.

Dean

P.S. Is this Vlad guy the actual Dracula?

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: October 25, 2003 at 10:00 p.m.  
** **Subject: Re: Impale Anyone Lately?**

I'll have to look that one up. Never met Dracula. I'm good, except for the shivering. Spend a lot of my time heating blankets in the dryer.

Faith

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 25, 2003 at 10:02 p.m.  
** **Subject: Re: Re: Impale Anyone Lately?**

Want me to come over there and warm you up?

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: October 25, 2003, at 10:05 p.m.  
** **Subject: Re: Re: Re: Impale Anyone Lately?**

Come right on over. I'll be waiting. That is – if you can leave your disappearances unsolved.

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 25, 2003 at 10:10 p.m.  
** **Subject: Dammit**

Can't. Raincheck?

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: October 25, 2003 at 10:15 p.m.  
** **Subject: Re: Dammit**

:( Sorry. One time offer.

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 25, 2003, at 10:20 p.m.  
** **Subject: Well...**

Guess I'll just have to change your mind, then.

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: October 25, 2003, at 10:25 p.m.  
** **Subject: Hit me with your best shot**

See what I did there?

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 25, 2003, at 10:30 p.m.  
** **Subject: You Suck**

I'm trying to save people here.

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: October 25, 2003, at 10:35 p.m.  
** **Subject: Re: You Suck**

Sorry, can't hear you. Too busy wrapping myself in a giant blanket straight out of the dryer.

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 25, 2003, at 10:45 p.m.  
** **Subject: Enough**

Last time I ever try to be nice to you.

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: October 25, 2003 at 10:50 p.m.  
** **Subject: That's Okay**

Bad boys are more my type.

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 25, 2003 at 10:55 p.m.  
** **Subject: Stop it.**

See subject line.

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: October 25, 2003, at 11:00 p.m.  
** **Subject: Good Night**

If you say so. Good night, Dean.

P.S. Sweet dreams, cowboy.

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: October 25, 2003, at 11:05 p.m.  
** **Subject: Re: Good Night**

Sometimes, I kinda hate you.

. . .

 


	8. Return of the King

**December 15** **th** **, 2003, Kalkaska, Michigan**

It didn't really surprise Dean when his phone went off in the middle of interviewing Ted Fisher, the latest victim's older brother, but it did irritate the crap out of him.

"If you'll excuse me," he said with a brittle smile, taking a step away and flipping the phone open. "This is Ranger Frehley."

"Howdy, Ranger," purred a low voice on the other end of the line.

"Faith?" Of course. Only she could have this terrible of timing.

"You got a minute?"

Dean held up his hand, fingers outspread. "Sorry. Just a moment," he mouthed to Ted. The hunter stepped outside to the cold front porch. He shoved his free hand into his coat pocket. It was  _freezing_. Five days on this case, and it was becoming very clear why John preferred to avoid Northern Michigan during December.

"What'd you need, Faith?"

"Where are you right now,  _Ranger_?"

"Working a job. Black dog problem. Lots of teethmarks, lots of forest up here."

"So Ranger Dean comes to the rescue?"

Chuckling in spite of himself, Dean nodded. "Right. Look, this isn't really a good time. Did you need something?"

Faith paused. "When'll you be finished up?"

"Couple days, give or take. Why?"

Another long moment of hesitation. "Think you could get to Cleveland by the seventeenth?"

"Maybe. What's going on?"

The Slayer sighed. "This is dumb," she said, sounding embarrassed.

"Don't got a lot of time here, Faith. Spit it out."

"If you wrap up in time, want to come up and spend the weekend? That new Lord of the Rings movie comes out on Wednesday, and I  _can't_  go see it with Andrew."

"Too much nerd talk?"

"Exactly. Plus, my birthday was yesterday, and Andrew wants to throw a party. If I tell him you're coming, I might be able to postpone the damn thing forever."

"Happy birthday," Dean replied absently, switching the phone to his other ear and tucking his frozen hand into his pocket.

"Thanks. So . . . whatcha say?"

"Welll…" he let the word drag out. "I'm not huge on nerd movies."

Faith laughed. "Liar. Tell you what - you rescue me from Andrew, and I might let you cash in that raincheck you keep asking about."

The hunter grinned. "I'll call you when I wrap up here. Gotta get back to work."

"Knew that'd convince you. Man-slut."

"Faithie." He wasn't entirely sure why, but the nickname possessed the remarkable ability of getting Faith to shut the hell up.

It worked this time. "Whatever. If I don't hear from you in two days, offer's gone."

"Mmm. Keep your nose clean."

"Good luck with your doggie problem."  _Click_.

Dean gave himself a few seconds to let the wide grin dissolve from his face, then headed back into the house.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Fisher. That was my partner back at the station. I've got just a few more questions. Was there anyone with a grudge against your sister?"

* * *

**December 17** **th** **, 2003, Grayling, Michigan**

Damn, but it was good to leave another small town behind him. Another job completed, another monster permanently grounded, another group of people left alive to put the pieces of their world back together. Another open highway in front of him. Both the heater and the stereo in the Impala were working. And a girl waiting for him in the next state over. This,  _this_ , was how life ought to be.

The fingers of one hand loosely curled over the top of the steering wheel, Dean grabbed his phone from the passenger seat and dialed Faith. It was probably a good idea to check in with her before he got too far along the road.

As usual, it took several rings for her to answer. "Dean?"

"On my way."

She didn't sound a bit surprised. "ETA?"

"Five and a half hours. Should be there by four. What're the roads like in Ohio?"

"Not too bad? There's snow, but most of it's piled on the shoulder. Do you need the address?"

"Text it to me . . . I  _hate_  winter."

"Ha. Yeah. Makes me miss California – and I  _never_  thought I'd say that. Movie tickets?"

"If you buy 'em – and I'm gonna want popcorn."

"Nice to know you're a cheap date."

"That sarcasm?"

"Never," Faith replied a little too earnestly. "Never. Four o'clock?"

"Four o'clock."

"Lookin' forward to it."  _Click._

Dean found himself smirking as he scrolled through his recent calls and dialed his father's number. Might as well use the time to explain this last case to his dad and tell him that he'd be in Ohio for the rest of the week. Of course, he'd leave out the specifics of Ohio. John knew about his son's Vampire Slayer contact, but he definitely didn't need to know the, uh, extent of Dean's Vampire Slayer contact.

It wasn't lying. Leaving out the extra, unnecessary details. Dean never lied to John Winchester. This was just . . . not mentioning the bits his dad wasn't interested in. That didn't count as lying. Not at all.

* * *

Cleveland was every bit as nasty as he had expected. The gutters and parking lots were piled with mountains of grey snow and ice, and everything looked dirty. It was depressing. Even the Impala seemed affected; she tried to fish-tail on the tighter turns. Dean almost missed the stark emptiness of Kalkaska – until he spotted three liquor stores within five blocks of each other. Now, that was a little more like his kind of town.

The clock on the dashboard read 4:05 when he turned into Faith's apartment complex. After parking in front of the squat brown brick building, the hunter grabbed his duffel and a six-pack from the back seat. No need to bring the extra weaponry in. Faith had made it explicitly clear that this was  _not_  a work thing.

His initial knock went unheeded, so Dean checked the address on his phone again. Yep, right apartment number. He knocked a second time, louder, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Ohio was as cold as Michigan. This time, a voice responded. Still, the door remained closed.

Slightly confused, he gave the door knob a try. It was unlocked, and the door swung open easily, revealing the tiled entry, muddy boots piled against the wall.

"Faith?" he called, shutting the door behind him, taking a moment to do up the three deadbolts and the chain. Dean strongly approved of the extra precautions. Once the door was closed, the muffled sound of music and clanging steel became noticeable. Dean glanced inside the kitchen – empty. He set the beer on the counter. "Faith?"

"In here."

Not entirely sure what to expect, Dean proceeded into the living room. "What –"

"Shhh." The figure on the couch waved towards the television screen, where a craggy brunette man leant over a pale, ginger one. "Boromir's dying."

"You're really into this Rings thing, aren't you?"

Faith gestured imperiously to the space next to her. "Shh. Sit."

With a shrug, Dean dropped his duffel onto the off-white carpet. He stepped around the end of the couch and plopped down beside Faith, putting his feet up on the coffee table beside hers. She handed him an unopened beer, its sides dripping condensation.

"Frodo, where is Frodo?" gasped the dying man.

"I let Frodo go."

"Then you did what I could not."

The Slayer stared in wide-eyed fascination and something resembling regret as the prince of Gondor breathed his last. "I always hate this part," she commented when the rugged Strider kissed the other man's forehead, apparently ending the mandatory silence.

"And why's that?"

"If you ask Andrew, I hate it because Boromir's redemption story is extremely short, condensed, and ends with his death." Faith lifted her own beer bottle in an informal salute. She continued in a terrible British accent, "Further, it is the first meaningful death of the series and illustrates both the concepts that few are incorruptible and also that no one escapes unscathed or without loss on a quest to save the world."

Popping the cap off his beer, Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You memorize that or what?"

"After the fifth time, it kinda starts sticking in your head…. How was the drive?"

"Fine." The hunter took another sip, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He glanced away from the hobbits on screen to give the Slayer a discreet once over. "You look good."

Credits started rolling. Faith stood and stretched. The hem of her t-shirt rose several inches above her jeans, displaying a flat stomach etched with muscle. And surprisingly tan, for December in Ohio. Dean watched in appreciation.

"Just good?" Faith teased, noticing his gaze. She rolled her shoulders backwards, arms extended above her head, fingers laced together. This had the effect of pushing her chest into prominence. Quite enjoying herself, she held the stretch for a long moment before dropping the pose and shaking her shoulders loose. "Like the view?"

"Mmm." Given the invitation to objectify, Dean decided to take advantage. He slid his eyes over every inch of her body, starting at Faith's white socks and working his way up. By the time they made eye contact, her face was flushed dark pink. The hunter smiled. "Best I've seen all day."

The Slayer stepped over his legs, taking her empty beer bottle to the trash can. "Just all day?" she asked in a tone dripping with fake hurt. "I must be slipping. What is it, Dean? You can be honest."

"Well…" Dean followed her into the kitchen. "This whole clothes thing you've got going on just isn't doing it for me," he complained jokingly, leaning against the doorframe.

In retaliation, Faith picked up the six-pack he'd left on the counter and moved it to the refrigerator. Sliding it onto the bottom shelf, she bent over at a very particular angle that emphasized her assets. "And here I was expecting some comment about preferring blondes," she muttered under her breath.

Standing, she closed the refrigerator door and moved across the kitchen. "Oh? How should I fix that, then?" She paused at the outskirts of Dean's personal space bubble. "Got any . . . ideas?" Her dark brown eyes met his and held them.

The hunter's voice dropped lower. "I can think of a few. Might have to miss that movie of yours, though."

She shrugged in response. "Could always see it tomorrow . . . or the day after."

"I like the way you think."

"Do you?" Her tone was light, lilting. Faith leaned in slightly. "What am I thinking, Dean?" she whispered inches from his ear.

Just then, the doorbell rang. The Slayer stepped backwards, flirtatiousness disappearing. "And that'll be the pizza man," she called over her shoulder, going to answer the door. "Do you mind rewinding the tape? I thought we could stick the next one in and watch it – Andrew got us tickets for a 9:00 showing of the third one."

Swallowing, Dean took a second to regain his composure. "On it," he called back, retreating to the living room and the VHS player. He listened with one ear to the whirring of the machine and with the other to the brief exchange of dialogue and laughter going on at the front door, still somewhat disconcerted. What had just happened?

Faith joined him a moment later, balancing a pizza box in one hand and a stack of napkins and a large water glass in the other. "You like pepperoni?" She set the pizza, napkins, and water down on the coffee table. "I wasn't sure."

He decided not to look away from the VCR. He needed just another minute and used switching out the VHS tapes as an excuse. "Pepperoni's good."

Composure finally regained, Dean resumed his spot on the couch and started divvying up the pizza. Taking two slices in a napkin, Faith hit 'Play.' She settled herself next to him, eyeing the grease soaking through the paper with a faint smile, then elbowed Dean. "It's nice to know you can count on the little things to stay constant." Faith nodded at the napkin.

"Like?" His eyes flickered between the girl and the snow-covered mountains onscreen.

"Greasy pizza. Cold beer. Little things like that let you know the world's still running straight."

Dean glanced down at her, startled. "How old are you?" he asked around a mouthful of pepperoni.

"Twenty-three. Why?"

He hesitated, taking his time with the phrasing, watching the wizard plummet through the air. Dean didn't really have words for the thoughts beginning to take form, half-expressed, in the back of his mind. It didn't usually take him long to get a bead on most people, but there was something off about Faith. She switched frequently between masks, and Dean still wasn't sure he had seen the real girl hiding behind them. And yet . . .

"What do you think it would take to kill a Balrog?" Faith wondered, having abandoned her earlier question.

Grateful for the change of subject, he squinted at the boss fight on the television. "In the movie universe, or in ours?"

"Ours."

"Some serious mojo."

"C'mon, Dean. Get creative. You're gonna be in a fight to the death with a Balrog. What do you take with you?"

* * *

They steadily ate their way through the entire pizza, unable to go through more than ten minutes' of film without commenting on some aspect of the filmmaking. The two dissected fight scene choreography, stopping and rewinding the movie to emphasize a particular point. Along with debating the merits of Elven vs. Rohirric weaponry, they swore bitterly when Haldir died.

An hour in, Faith paused the movie while Dean grabbed a few guns out of the Impala. For the rest of the film, he cleaned firearms, and she sharpened blades. It was weirdly domestic.

Eight-thirty arrived, and Faith insisted they take her car to the theater. Dean agreed reluctantly, with one proviso: she let him drive.

"Fine. Have it your way," she grumbled, tugging her black pea coat over one arm, then tossing him the keys to her '98 Dodge Intrepid.

"If this is a date, shouldn't I be driving?" he grinned.

The Slayer rolled her eyes. "Oh, this's a date, is it? News to me. You'd better start opening doors, then."

Dean's grin widened. "Does this mean I get to hold your hand?"

Mouthing something quasi-obscene, she shooed him out of the apartment. "Get moving, Romeo."

The theater was packed. Faith and Dean were very relieved that Andrew had already delivered their tickets and that they didn't have to go to the back of the giant lines. They slipped inside the theater, bought a giant popcorn, and found two seats near the back of the theater. After a brief, intense whispered discussion about who got the aisle seat, Faith slid into the row first.

"What you got on you?" she hissed as the first trailer started, glancing around the four corners of the room, searching for Exit signs.

"Knife," Dean replied quietly, recognizing the behavior. "You?"

"Stake . . . and knife."

"I thought the point of today was to take off work?"

Faith chuckled softly in his ear. "Hunter, Slayer. You're never 100% off."

"Fai – "

"Shh. It's starting."

_Return of the King_  was, well, to be frank, frigging  _fantastic_. Except for the marathon endings, which Dean wouldn't have minded skipping, he enjoyed nearly every one of its two hundred and one minutes. Around the time that Young Hobbit started singing and the little ginger brother rode to his oncoming death, he reached across and took Faith's hand. To his surprise, she didn't pull away. Not then, and not until Annie Lennox sang at the end.

On the drive back to her apartment, they discussed which characters sucked the most (both chose Denethor); whose fighting style was coolest (despite Legolas's pretty tricks, it was unanimously Aragorn); and which villain was the most badass as represented on screen (Faith voted for the Nazgûl king and his dragon-chicken, but Dean claimed that the giant Shelob spider was much, much, much scarier).

At the complex, he parked the Dodge carefully next to the Impala and then checked one last time to make sure Baby was locked before heading inside after the Slayer. Walking in, Dean saw Faith's coat already hung on a hook. One of her boots was strewn halfway between the front door and the living room, with the other lying unceremoniously on the carpet. Dean followed the trail of scarf, gloves, stake, knife, socks, and belt across the living room.

"Hey."

The hunter looked up to see the Slayer standing in the hallway. Eyes locked on his, she reached down and pulled her tee-shirt up and over her head, revealing the lace-edged black bra beneath.

"Dean," she said conversationally, letting the shirt fall to the floor. "You know, this whole clothes thing you've got going on just isn't doing it for me."

"Oh?" Dean shrugged off his button-up. "Got any ideas on how to fix that?"

Faith took a step forward. "I might have a couple." She raised an eyebrow in challenge. "How do you feel about role-play?"

* * *

**December 18th, 2003, Cleveland, Ohio, 2:03 p.m.**

Waking up without threats of imminent danger tended to be a process for Faith. Her dreams would fade to black. Slowly, awareness of other senses would trickle in. This morning, the first thing she noticed was the horrible, fuzzy taste in her mouth. Next, the warmth of another person's leg touching hers. Then, the quiet noise of that someone's steady breathing. Finally, Faith opened her eyes and rolled over to see the shirtless man sharing her bed.

_Damn,_  but he was beautiful. It was almost enough to make up for how grungy she felt. The Slayer traced every exposed inch of the man's chest, arms, and face with her eyes, remembering. If last night was proof of how things could go if you slept with the same guy twice, she might have to reconsider her one-night-and-done rule. And, best of all, today, there would be no rush to gather her clothes and slip out the door to escape an awkward goodbye.

Faith hated those goodbyes, when people suddenly got all clingy. One-nighters were never the start to some great romance. That only happened in movies, not real life. Why was it that she, the Slayer with the arguably tenuous grip on reality, was the only one who got this?

"Morning," said a pleasantly low, rumbling voice.

Glancing up from her absent-minded study of his pectorals, the woman looked into a pair of sleepy green eyes. "Morning," she croaked in response, smiling despite herself. "What time is it?"

Yawning, Dean threw an arm out to the desk without looking and fumbled for his phone. Fingers closing around a reasonably sized piece of plastic and metal, he flipped it open and winced at the bright screen in the dim bedroom. "Two . . . in the afternoon."

"Oh, G-d." She attempted to sit up, but it was much colder outside of the covers, and she ended up just scooting closer to the warmth that was Dean. The hunter wrapped an arm around her, pulling her even nearer, so that her head was resting on his shoulder. "We really should get up," she said groggily.

"You don't sound convinced." He was rubbing a hand up and down her arm, and it was oddly comforting. Faith could feel herself drifting back off to sleep. It was just so damn comfortable and warm here.

She struggled to rally. "No. We should. We really, really should." Faith blinked hazily, forcing herself to focus. Her eyes caught on the gold amulet that he was always wearing, and she reached out with one hand to touch the thing. It looked like the head of some tribal god, or maybe a monster.

"What's this?" she asked. "Protective charm?"

"Something like that." He paused, then continued, "My little brother gave it to me when we were kids."

"What's little bro's name, again?"

"Sam."

"Mmm." Faith pulled her hand back away from the amulet and let it rest on the hunter's chest. "Bet he's a cute kid. You know what name's really sexy?"

"What's that?"

"Dean."

He laughed. "Sure it is. You're just trying to get me to sleep with you again."

Smirking, the Slayer propped herself up on her elbows, bringing their faces closer together. "Well, is it working?"

Dean leaned forward as if he were going to kiss her, but turned his head at the last minute so that their lips barely brushed. "Keep trying," he said into her ear.

Faith grinned wickedly. "You sure you want me to do that? We might never get out of this bed."

"Fine by me," he said with a shrug.

Well, this could get interesting. She stared into those green eyes for a long moment, biting her lip slightly as she planned her next move.

_Ring! Ring! Ring!_

"One second." Dean rolled over and grabbed his phone again. "Hello?"

A deep voice barked something on the other end of the line, and the hunter's demeanor changed entirely. He sat up rigidly in the bed, then stood and started dressing. Faith listened to the uh-huh's and yessir's, watching the man pull on yesterday's clothes with a faint sense of regret. Dean's fingers flew as he did up his fly. Pinning the phone between his shoulder and ear, he rethreaded his belt through the loops on his jeans and buckled it, tight. Then it was over the head with his t-shirt and out of the room for the rest of his things.

Curious, the Slayer wrapped the comforter around herself and followed him out into the living room. She observed as Dean put on his work boots without bothering to undo the laces first, hopping on one foot while trying to shove the other in through the narrow aperture.

Partway through the second boot, he paused and stood up straighter. The ensuing "Yes, sir" sounded more final than the others. It was immediately succeeded by another. "Yes, sir. Goodbye."

"Duty calls?" the Slayer asked casually, walking in front of the couch. She started to gather the weapons he'd been cleaning the night before into her arms. "Where do you want these?"

Once again struggling with his shoe, Dean nodded his head towards his ratty olive green duffel. "Bodies found in a locked room in Galveston, Texas. Door was locked from the inside, and it looks like some kind of ritualized killing – blood sigils everywhere." He swore at the uncooperative boot. "I should have been on the road three hours ago."

Faith maneuvered her load of firearms around the furniture and set them down in front of the bag. Kneeling down, she unzipped the duffel and began setting the handguns inside it. Her comforter slipped an inch or two and attempted to fall open at the front. She tugged the blanket back into position and held it there with her left arm. "That your dad?"

"Yeah," he answered shortly. Footgear finally on, the hunter stepped over to her just as she zipped the bag shut. Extending a hand, he pulled the woman to her feet before reaching down to the duffel's strap and his shotgun. "Thanks."

"Anytime."

Giving the room a final, cursory glance, he shrugged the duffel over his shoulder and grabbed his leather jacket off of the back of the couch. "Think that's it, but if I left something . . ."

"I can mail it or hold onto it until you're back in the area."

"Thanks," Dean repeated, pulling his keys out of his jacket pocket. He fumbled uncharacteristically with them for a few seconds when they reached the front door. This hadn't been his usual overnight, and he didn't think his usual, "That was great. I'll call you." would work here.

Thankfully, Faith didn't appear to have similar reservations. "I'm headed back to bed," she said, opening the door for him with a smile. "Maybe get some sleep this time. Drive safe. Have fun with your monsters."

It was, he realized in relief, one of their typical phone sendoffs, which generally were variations of:  _Good luck. Take care. Don't die._ He grinned back at her. "Give those vampires hell."

"You know it."

And then he was out the door, hurrying to the Impala, hearing the loud clicks as Faith locked up the three deadbolts. Dean tossed his bag and the shotgun into the back seat and slid behind the wheel. Turning the key in the ignition, he found himself almost hoping that he had left something behind. It would give him an excuse to return.

 


	9. A Haunting We Will Go, pt. 1

**January 20** **th** **, 2004 Cleveland, Ohio**

"And that's it! Let's call it a day, ladies." Faith extended her hand and pulled the newest Slayer recruit to her feet.

The group of six teenage-ish girls all stopped exchanging blows and began to chatter excitedly. Some grabbed antiseptic wipes and started to clean the mats. While they were doing this, two others gathered the practice staves and packed them away in their gym bags. Robin had managed to reserve this room in a boxing gym three nights a week under guise of them being a self-defense class run by a local church. As such, it was best to keep the quarterstaves, swords, and all sharp-edged things safely unseen.

Faith currently trained the Slayerettes on Tuesday and Thursday nights. Occasionally, she dropped by on Saturday afternoons to check on things before patrolling. It wasn't the most challenging workout for her, but, if it kept the younger ones out of trouble, hey, it was worth it.

That said, she hadn't quite realized how much emotional counseling and coddling accompanied this job. It was perplexing because Faith did not consider herself a good person to go to for advice. And yet, these girls - even the ones who had heard whispers of the sordid Rogue Slayer story - kept coming to her with questions about boyfriends and parents and time management. It was rather disconcerting.

Her last sparring partner, Lily - blonde, sixteen, slightly overweight, and obsessed with musical theater - brushed a lock of sweaty hair out of her eyes. "How am I doing?" she asked worriedly.

"Not bad for only doing this for two weeks," the Slayer told her. Faith walked to the edge of the mat and retrieved her water bottle, downing half in one swallow. Damn, she was thirsty. Ninety minutes of eight women fighting in the boxing gym's spare room, and the concept of air conditioning became just something of the imagination. "You could use some work on your cardio fitness. Do you run at all?"

Lily followed, picking up her own grungy green plastic bottle on the way. "I find running boring," she confessed sheepishly.

The older woman laughed. "Yeah, it can be. Until you're being chased by something nasty with teeth, and the only thing that can get you to safety is your own two legs. Can you run a mile?"

Chagrinned, Lily shook her head. "No. Maybe a quarter mile?"

"Then start there. Run at least a quarter mile every day this week. We'll talk again next Tuesday, and see if you can up it then, all right?" As she talked, Faith pulled a sweater out of her backpack and zipped it on. She dug in the bottom of the bag for her car keys.

"Okay." The girl turned to leave, then stopped. "Thanks, Faith. For being so nice about this."

Glancing up from her search, Faith stifled her feeling of surprise and saved it for later examination. "It's a rough transition." Finally finding her key ring, she slid her water bottle into her bag and slipped it over one shoulder. "You'll get there."

The blonde opened her mouth to say something else, but was cut off by the shrill ringing of Faith's cell phone.

With an apologetic shrug, the older Slayer whipped her phone out of her pocket, flipped it open, and checked the caller ID. "Sorry, Lily." Faith tried to hide her relief at escaping further emotional moments. "I've got to take this."

Stepping away from the gaggle of girls, she punched the 'accept call' button. "Dean?"

"Faith. Any chance you could blow off your plans for the rest of the week? I've got a potential job in Pennsylvania, and I think you might be able to help me with it."

She waved the younger Slayers out of the room ahead of her, mouthing that she would see them later. "Vampires?"

"Mmm, doesn't look like it. A haunting, maybe."

That sounded interested. Faith tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder as she locked the gym door and hurried to her car. Honestly, perhaps she should have packed more than a light sweatshirt. "One of your things, then?"

"Yeah. Want to see how hunters do it?"

Starting the car, the Slayer tried to keep her chattering teeth silent. "Sure. Nothing going on here that I can't get away from, anyway."

"Good. I'll be there in an hour. Can you be ready?"

"Not a problem. See you then."

"Bye."

Tearing out of the parking lot in her Dodge, Faith sped home as quickly as she could. An hour would be cutting it close for driving, packing a bag, and taking a shower, but she would have to make it work. After all, there was not a snowflake's chance in hell of her climbing into a small car for several hours without a long, hot shower beforehand to de-grungify.

* * *

Dean was relieved to see the Slayer standing outside her apartment when he pulled up in the Impala. It was already well after six o'clock. Even with breaking every speed limit between Cleveland and Wrightsville, they wouldn't be able to get there until nearly midnight.

It was good to see her, he thought, reaching across the front seat to unlock the passenger side door, although he never would have said that aloud. She was straightforward, and he liked that. Faith tossed her backpack into the back seat and slid in afterwards. She closed the door to the Impala and drew her seatbelt across her lap before turning to look at him.

"Hey, stranger."

"Slayer." Dean tipped an imaginary cowboy hat. Shifting the Impala into reverse, he backed the car out of the parking lot and headed for I-90.

Faith buckled her seat belt and adjusted her winter clothing. It was nice and cozy inside the car, and so her gloves and scarf came off in quick succession. "Where we headed? You mentioned Pennsylvania . . . ?"

Eyes on the dark road, he nodded. "Yeah. Wrightsville. In the last ten years or so, three waitresses have been murdered outside this old restaurant, the Accomac Inn. Same M.O. every time – girls are the last ones closing up the restaurant at night, and they get found the next morning with their throats slit."

"Sure that's a supernatural thing?" Faith used the question as an excuse to look at him. Even in the dim light reflected back into the car from the headlights, he was still ridiculously pretty. You just didn't get guys that attractive in the dingy Cleveland bars she'd been hanging out in lately. Not by a long shot. "Sounds kind of like a serial killer thing."

Dean shrugged. "You could be right," he admitted, "but in some of the older states – Pennsylvania, Virginia, New York, some of the New England ones – it's like every little one stoplight town has its own ghost – or legend of a ghost, anyway. A friend of my dad's – guy named Caleb – called yesterday and told us about it. The ghost – or the killer – struck again Sunday night."

"And your dad thought you should check it out?"

"Thought  _we_  should check it out."

" _We_? Your dad knows about me?"

Dean sniggered at that one. "He's not the kind of person you keep things from. Tried that a couple times when I was a teenager . . . learned that lesson the hard way. Naw, he needed to stay in South Dakota to finish up our job there, so he sent me on. Suggested I take you with me, if you were interested. I gotta admit, since I met you, he's gotten really curious about that Watcher's Council of yours and how it all works."

"Works is an overstatement," Faith replied dryly. On the inside, her mind raced. She was rather fond of her anonymity and disliked the idea of strangers knowing things about her.

Somehow, the hunter must have sensed her reticence. He turned on the radio, and Kansas's "Dust in the Wind" filled the car.

"You know," the girl mused after the first chorus, "this is kind of my song."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." She closed her eyes and hummed along with a few bars. "I don't really believe in an 'after'-this. Things are here, and then they're gone . . . and when they're gone, they're gone permanently. Like they'd never been. Like . . . like . . ."

"Like dust in the wind?" Dean suggested with a chuckle.

The Slayer grinned at him. "Exactly." She stared out the window at the Cleveland as it flashed past. "How about you? What do you believe in?"

"Kinda a deep conversation, don't you think?"

"I don't know about that," she said lightly. "I'm a Slayer. You're a hunter. We deal in life and death, don't we? You must have thought about it at some point."

Dean shook his head. "Not really, no. I'm too busy kicking ass and taking names, saving hot chicks – you know, doing stuff."

"Mmm.  _Stuff_. Super important, that stuff." Faith continued her gazing out the window. After a few minutes and two other Kansas songs, she tugged off her coat and draped it across her front like a blanket. "You need me to stay awake? Navigate, or something?"

"Nah. It's pretty much a straight shot. I'll wake you when we get there."

Her eyes widened, and something worried flashed in their brown depths. "Call my name first. Before you touch me."

"Okay." The man reached his right arm around and behind his seat into the back floorboard. His fingers closed around the sleeve of a rough leather jacket, and he dragged it forwards. "Here." He dropped the jacket into Faith's lap. "Sleeping against that door can twist your neck around. My brother used to always steal my coat when I wasn't looking and use it as a pillow. You, uh, can do the same, if you want."

Faith recognized the leather jacket. "Thanks. Me and this coat go way back."

"Huh?"

"Remember that night you got into a bar fight and crashed at my place?"

"You mean the time when you found a handsome man in an alleyway and decided to kidnap him?"

"Heh. Something like that. You were wearing this then." She carefully folded the jacket into a neat square and tucked it between her head and the car window. "Night, Dean," she said with fake cheeriness. Closing her eyes, the Slayer drifted off to the sounds of a purring engine, classic rock, and Dean beating a quiet tattoo on the steering wheel in time with the beat.

This was by no means the hunter's first time making a long drive with a sleeping passenger. He dialed the stereo down a couple of notches and left the map open on the bench seat between them, keeping the Impala smooth as he passed eighteen-wheelers and sedans on the Interstate.

From time to time, looking over his shoulder to merge right, he checked on the sleeping girl. Faith had curled up in the seat, tucking her feet beneath her, getting her boots all over the leather upholstery. Well, at least she didn't snore.

It was nearly an hour later when, moving back over after speeding past three eighteen-wheelers in a row, that he noticed the shivering. At first, Dean didn't think much of it. He cranked the heater up a little and pulled Faith's peacoat back up over her shoulders. Five minutes after that, passing a green minivan covered in bumper stickers, he saw that the shivering hadn't stopped. If anything, it was worse.

Looking more closely, Dean realized that her mouth was moving. He killed the music to listen. She was whimpering, barely audible over the noise of the engine. It was a high-pitched sound, a surprising contrast to her normally alto voice. Hunter brain working overtime, the man added two and two together and came up with nightmares. Hmm. Perhaps Slayer life wasn't as casual and carefree as Faith tried to make it seem.

"Faith," he said, quietly at first, then louder. "Faith. Hey, Faith. Wake up." He touched her arm gently.

The Slayer jerked nearly out of her seat. She was instantly awake. Momentarily confused, Faith shook her head and glanced around wildly at her surroundings. Within seconds, she remembered where she was and relaxed. "What's up?" she asked groggily, leaning her head against the leather jacket and the window again.

"I'm getting pretty tired," Dean lied. "Been a long drive from Dakota. Talk to me?"

"Unnnhhh. What do you want to talk about?"

"How did you find out you were a Slayer? What was that like?"

Faith groaned. "Really?"

"Yeah." Dean faked a yawn. "Can't keep my eyes open. Tell me more about Slayers?"

"Ugh. Okay. I was seventeen when it started." She stopped there, trying to decide how much to share and how much to conceal.

"When what started?"

"The dreams . . . "

* * *

It was pushing 12:30 when they finally hit York, the city adjacent to Wrightsville, stopping only for gas and a few bags of chips. They pulled up outside the Lincoln Lodge, a one-story red brick motel. Shoving her arms back through the sleeves of her coat, Faith jumped out of the Impala and hurried towards the motel's front office with its dimly lit sign. She stepped inside the dingy room and rang the bell at the counter until a balding middle-aged man appeared.

"Can I help you, miss?" The tip of his long nose twitched slightly as he talked, and he wore a red hooded sweatshirt with a large red and blue 'P' on it, a tarnished name tag saying "Dave" pinned to his left shoulder. Dave looked his potential customer up and down, but Faith was currently at her least sketchy – winter outerwear and a lack of sleep could hide a multiple of vices.

"Hi, Dave." Faith attempted friendliness, despite her exhaustion. "Saw your vacancy sign. I need one room, two queens, for the next couple of nights."

Dave wasn't quite that easy to win over. "We take Visa and Mastercard," he said pointedly.

Faking a smile, the Slayer fished her wallet from her back pocket and and brandished a shiny new Visa. Thanks to Giles, she now had a lovely Watcher's Council expense card, to use on official Slayer business. She rarely touched the thing, except to buy new quarrels for her crossbow, but this seemed as good a time as any.

"Can I see some ID?"

Her newly acquired driver's license joined the credit card on the grimy counter. The hotel manager picked up the two cards and examined the signatures on them. Then he glanced back and forth between the license and the woman. Returning the ID, he added grudgingly, "Can never be too careful, you know."

"Mmm." Faith kept her smile fixed in place.

"That'll be $120 for the two nights, or $250 to see you till the end of the week."

"End of the week is good."

"Mmph." Dan swiped the Visa and printed a bill. He placed it on the counter for her to sign. "Check out is at eleven. We don't do breakfast here, but there's a couple of restaurants nearby that open around six. Wifi password can be found near the television in the room. How many room keys?"

"Two."

"Here you go, then. Room 117. You need anything, extra towels or a maintenance problem, just call the front desk. There's always someone here."

"Thanks. Have a nice evening."

"Uh-huh. You, too."

Tucking the credit card and room keys into her pocket, Faith braved the cold once more. She ran across the parking lot back to the Impala and climbed in.

"All set?"

"Room 117. Other side of the building."

Dean shifted the car out of park. "Awesome."

He drove around and took the spot closest to their room. Grabbing their bags out of the back, he followed Faith, waiting while she fumbled with the room key, trying to figure out which direction was up. It took her four tries before the door finally opened. They stumbled into the motel room, its traditional set up welcoming in its familiarity. Two beds, a television, a few poorly working lamps, a table with two chairs, a mini-fridge, and a bathroom with faded tile. Everything was well-used but clean, and Dean almost felt at home.

Dropping his duffel and Faith's backpack on the carpeted floor, he locked the door behind them. The Slayer had already flung her coat across a chair back and was now sitting on the bed closest to the door and furthest from the television, unlacing her boots.

"I'll take this one," she announced, kicking the shoes off. "You mind if I have the bathroom first?"

The hunter shook his head and tossed her her bag. Faith carried it with her into the bathroom. She emerged five minutes later, having traded her jeans and sweater for plaid flannel pants and a blue UC Sunnydale t-shirt. In her absence, Dean had somehow managed to find a low budget horror movie. He lay sprawled across his bed, still fully dressed, watching a heavily made up Dracula attack a shrieking woman.

"G-d, I'm tired," the Slayer groaned. "It's all yours."

"Thanks." Dean muted the TV and stretched. He dug his pajamas and toothbrush out of his duffel and headed for the bathroom.

Faith waited until Dean was safely out of sight to retrieve a large serrated knife from the depths of her backpack and sneak it underneath her pillow. Then, she tucked the bag and her boots against the nightstand where they could not be a tripping hazard. She slipped between the covers and rolled onto her right side, back towards the bathroom, face towards the door. Pulling the comforter up and over her head, she curled into a ball. By the time Dean finished and came back into the room, she was fast asleep.

 


	10. A Haunting We Will Go, pt. 2

**January 21** **st** **, 2004, York, Pennsylvania**

"So. You get all of that?" Dean asked around a mouthful of buttermilk pancakes. A drop of golden syrup glistened tauntingly on the upper surface of his top lip. It was crying out for comment, for someone to reach across the table and lick –  _flick_ – it off. The hunter washed his pancakes down with a swig of coffee, obliterating the tempting syrup forever.

"Think so. Research never ends." Faith glanced at the remnants of her own breakfast: eggs, bacon, and toast. The half-eaten eggs had congealed together in a gloppy, yellow, yolky mess, seeping through the adjacent toast and slowly turning it to mush. She brushed a slice of bacon through the pool of yolk and bit down on it with a satisfying crunch. Maybe it was gross – Buffy or Giles definitely would have complained – but food was food.

Dean appeared supremely unconcerned with her diner etiquette. "Any questions?" He stuffed another giant forkful of pancake into his mouth.

The Slayer lowered her voice slightly. Even though the diner was packed with its morning crowd, it was best not to risk the wrong person overhearing what she had to say. "You want a detailed history on this inn, with an emphasis on murder."

Too busy chewing to reply, he nodded.

"Okay. And you're going to check in with the locals and check out the official police report."

"'S right."

"Cool." She reached out for her half-empty coffee cup and drank it down in one go. "Ready when you are, Tex."

"Uhhhh…"

Taking another look at the pile of flapjacks on his plate, Faith snorted and shook her head. "Take your time."

* * *

Hands down, her least favorite part of Slaying was the research. Well… except for the part where she had to work with people. Faith had never been a library person, but there was something different about the book searching this time. Probably because it wasn't Watcher's Council related.

She settled herself in front of a computer at the Wrightsville public library and began the arduous task of Googling every possible combination of the words "Accomac Inn," "murder," and "haunting." To Faith's surprise, her initial search met with several hits. Eyes roaming up and down the screen, she scribbled into a spiral notepad beside the keyboard. Next to each piece of pertinent information, she kept a tally of how many different sites included it.

Apparently, the Accomac Inn was rather renowned locally. In the early 1800s, a man named John Coyle had shot his parents' hired girl in the barn of the building that was now the Accommac Inn. But that was all the various webpages agreed on. Nearly every other aspect of the story was under debate. The girl's name was Molly – no, Emily. One local history website declared that she had been shot with a pistol. Another claimed that it had been a rifle. A third insisted that Molly – Emily – had not been shot at all. Johnny Coyle had stabbed her in the stomach thirteen times.

The purpose of the shooting was also somewhat unclear. In the most commonly shared story, John had been mentally challenged –  _slow_ , as it had been called in those days – and he had been infatuated with Molly. When Molly tried to let him down gently, he had not understood, due to his mental problems. Finally, the volatile situation had escalated one afternoon in the Coyle barn. John proposed to Molly. When she refused him, he lost it and killed her in rage. Still other versions of the legend had John attempting to kiss Molly and murdering her after being turned down.

John Coyle's story didn't stop there. The path to justice for Molly/Emily's death had taken two trials, one acquittal by the Supreme Court, and multiple claims of insanity as defense. Finally, three years after the death, John was hanged. The people in the town of Marietta had been so outraged by Emily's murder that they refused to allow him burial in the local cemetery. Instead, John was interred on his father's homestead, several hundred yards from the barn where he had killed Emily. According to the legend, John's father had slept on the grave for several nights after, to prevent its being vandalized by grave robbers.

Two hours into her search, Faith set her pen down and shook her hands out. Her fingers and wrist were starting to cramp. The Slayer leaned backwards in her chair, tilting her chin up to the ceiling, feeling the stretch on her throat. She rolled her head around slowly, giving her neck muscles a chance to relax. Two violent deaths at the location in question, one of them buried on the premises. It was a good start.

Finished stretching, she checked the texts on her cell phone, making sure it was still set on silent. She had five. One from Andrew, excitedly telling her that he was leaving on a mission to L.A. and wondering if she had any messages for Angel, Wesley, and Spike. Faith fired off a quick response, asking him to tell the L.A. gang that she said 'hi.' She took a moment and made a mental note to call Wesley when she got back to Cleveland, see how her two favorite vampires were handling living in the same city again.

The second message was from Robin. Only Faith's Slayer professionalism kept her from deleting it unread. Once she read the text, she wished that she had. It was short, blunt, and angry, demanding to know where the hell she had been last night, and why she hadn't shown up for weekly patrol assignments. She texted back, "On a case for Giles," and then hurriedly sent Giles an email in London explaining that she needed him to cover for her.

Moments like these were why Faith occasionally flirted with the idea of quitting Slaying. She loved hunting things, fighting things,  _Slaying_  things – there wasn't really anything that came close to making her feel alive the way Slaying did. But the bureaucracy and, worse, having to explain herself to people like Robin, drove her half-mad with frustration.

Mood thoroughly soured, she looked at the third text to see a question about the value of kickboxing versus judo from one of the older Slayerettes, Becka. "For fitness or for fighting?" she replied.

The final two messages were from Dean.  _Finally_. Faith was starting to get rather bored with her search. She wasn't sure how much longer she could keep at it without further direction. The first message had been sent an hour ago. It said simply, "Got case files from P.D." The second, which had just arrived in the last five minutes, read, "Interviewing restaurant manager in thirty. Plan A is a go."

Well, that was a relief. The Slayer flipped her notebook shut and stood. Her quads groaned in protest. There had been far too much sitting in the last twenty-four hours. She briefly rehearsed her cover story in her head. In case anyone asked, she was a history major from Penn State's York campus doing her senior thesis on the use of the insanity defense in 19th century America. Wes would be proud. Might even give them something to talk about the next time she called him, past their usual ten minutes.

It wasn't too difficult to find an unoccupied librarian. The library was fairly deserted at ten on a Wednesday morning. Faith approached the first mid-fifties woman with frizzy blond hair and a tarnished name tag that she saw and asked about county records.

The librarian, Anne, seemed flattered by the request. She sat Faith down at a large work table in the furthest recesses of the place and told her to wait. Fair enough. Faith opened her spiral to a new page and jotted down her remaining questions to help keep her focus.

_How much of the online stuff is true?_

_Was the girl's name Molly or Emily? Where was she buried?_

_Has anyone ever reported paranormal activity around the Accomac Inn?_

_Were there any other unsolved murders in Wrightsville like this last one earlier than ten years ago?_

Anne returned, lugging a giant filing box. Arms trembling slightly from the effort, she dropped the box onto the table with a thud. "Oops," she giggled nervously. "I always forget how heavy those are."

She took off the lid and began pulling out the box's contents. "I got everything I could think of about the Accomac murder and other insanity defenses in the county. Here's the official case notes from the Pennsylvania Supreme Court for this district, volume 12 – that covers from 1880 to 1885, the time period in question. They started printing these things in the forties, so you'll want to be a bit careful as the binding's fragile."

Faith eyed the thick book in mild terror. "How many pages is it? Roughly?" She tried to keep her voice as casual as possible.

The librarian glanced at the book with a practiced eye. "Five hundred or so. And then there's this – " an even larger book bound in black leather. "Just a quick summary of all felony county cases since 1850. It was compiled by some legal scholar from Penn State in the eighties. Can't remember his name. You might have heard of him?"

Shaking her head quickly, the Slayer said, "'Fraid not. This is the furthest I've ever gotten into the legal stuff."

With a shrug, Anne set the black book beside the other one. "Unfortunately, I don't think this one has an index at the back. And then, there's this." The largest tome of all, featuring a sepia-toned photograph of an old town on the cover. " _Across the River: Murder at Accomac_. This was written just recently by Mike O'Malley, a local historian. If you have any questions once you've finished reading it, I'm sure he'd be delighted to talk to you. I can get you his number, if you like."

"Sure." Faith had to look away from the books, whose presence was starting to fill her with despair. "That would be great, thanks. And do you have archives of the local newspaper? Was there a newspaper in Wrighstville back then?"

Anne smiled. "You're in luck.  _The Wrighstville Gazette_  has been publishing weekly editions since 1875. We have paper copies in the basement, of course, but they've also been recently scanned into one of our computers. Come find me when you've finished with these," she indicated the deeply depressing pile of books in front of Faith, "and I'll get you all set up. And I'll go get Mike's phone number for you, before I forget."

"Thanks." The Slayer sighed, then tried a smile of her own. "This might take me days to get through. Can I check any of these out?"

"Not at all!" beamed Anne. "I'm just so glad to have a student interested in researching these things. The Supreme Court case notes are part of our special collections, and so need to stay in the library, but you're welcome to check out either or both of the other two. Just come see me when you're ready, and we'll get you a temporary library card."

"Sweet. I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome, hon." The librarian bustled away towards the front desk, leaving Faith alone with the nightmare reading.

With another sigh, she lifted the Supreme Court book and moved it closer. Damn. Anne hadn't been kidding about it being heavy. The darn thing weighed three pounds if it weighed an ounce. Gingerly, Faith started turning pages. She exhaled in relief when she found the table of contents, which gave page numbers for each year and had subheadings for the important cases.

1882 started at page 192 and went to 250. Sixty pages of what promised to be the driest, most convoluted reading ever. Fan-freakin'-tastic. Faith was beginning to understand why Dean had been so pleased when she hadn't complained about being the one to hit the books. Son of a bitch.

_If I can trick Angelus and give a Turok-Han a smack down, I can do this,_  she championed herself, resolutely turning to page 192.  _I don't actually have to read all of this – just skim. But I am_ definitely _asking Giles about speed-reading next time I email him._

It took a full hour before Faith was satisfied with her search of the case notes. Now she had the official State of Pennsylvania version of the murder, two pages of bullet-points in her notebook about the trial, and another page and a half of doodles.

She approached the librarian again. Unfortunately, Faith explained, she had class at two o'clock and really only had an hour or so left at the library. Could Anne help her check out the other two books and show her the  _Gazette_ 's archives?

Soon, a thick plastic back containing the carefully wrapped books at her feet, Faith was sitting in front of the archive computer, scrolling through the paper's most recent edition and working her way backwards. She had tried the time-saving Ctrl + F with no luck. She was going to have scroll through each issue separately.

This blew. Faith kind of almost wished that Willow were there to do the searching for her. It would go so much faster. But that would mean actually dealing with Willow. On second thought, perhaps it was best that it was just her.

Half an hour later, the Slayer had worked her way through ten years' worth of the  _Gazette_ , beginning with last week's publication _._ In that time, there had been three murders of young women near the Accomac Inn. She copied down the manner of death for each girl, including weapon, time of day that the death occurred, and any other interesting details. It wasn't until the third murder, in 1993, that Faith saw a pattern.

The  _Gazette_ had included recent pictures of the murder victims in the articles. The three dead girls – Louise Hancock, Amy Bingham, and Jess Taylor – had all been brunettes in their early twenties. Pretty, dark-haired, slender-faced girls with dark eyes. Girls who looked a decent lot like her. Realization hit with a jolt. Faith sank back in her chair, a wry smile finding its way to her lips.

_Well played, Dean Winchester_.  _Well played._

* * *

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 1:15 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Lunch?

. . . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 1:17 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Thought you'd never ask.

. . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 1:20 p.m.  
** **Message:**

You about finished up?

. . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 1:22 p.m.  
** **Message:**

More or less. ETA?

. . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 1:25 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Half an hour?

. . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 1:30 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Good. Starving.

. . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 1:35 p.m.  
** **Message:**

You find anything?

. . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 1:38 p.m.  
** **Message:**

:)

. . .

**To: 2135558061  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 1:40 p.m.  
** **Message:**

That mean yes?

. . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 1:45 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Buy me lunch, and maybe I'll tell you.

. . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 1:47 p.m.  
** **Message:**

That's not how this works.

. . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 1:50 p.m.  
** **Message:**

You're dealing with a Slayer now. That is how this works.

. . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 2:00 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Here. Come on out.

. . .

* * *

Faith opened the door to the Impala and was greeted by the smell of hot grease. As she dumped her research materials into the back seat, she said a silent prayer of thanks to the fast food gods. Her stomach gurgled loudly.

"Kentucky Fried?" Dean passed over a half-full bucket of glorious crispy brown deliciousness.

Napkin-less and carefree, she grabbed a drumstick and started eating, more focused on efficiency than etiquette. The drumstick was soon followed by a thigh. "G-d, I love you," she announced, digging in the bucket once again for her third piece of chicken.

He snatched the KFC back. Flattery notwithstanding, he couldn't let the girl eat both his lunch and hers. "Hungry much?"

"I went on a run this morning."

"You went on a run. Here?"

"It was only a couple of miles. You were sleeping, so I just snuck out and snuck back in. I was real quiet. You mumble in your sleep – did you know that?" Faith reached over Dean's arm for another drumstick. "Napkins?"

"I say anything interesting?"

"Too mumbly to tell. Napkins?"

"In the bag." He gestured towards a grease-splattered brown paper bag at her feet.

"Mmm. 'Fanks." The Slayer rummaged in the sack for napkins. Encountering a smaller, white paper bag inside of the brown one, she tore it open excitedly to reveal four gorgeous Southern biscuits. "And you even thought to bring dessert. Hmm. You must be buttering me up for something. Get it?" She brandished a biscuit and a condiment packet of honey butter. " _Butter-_ ing?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "That the type of humor they teach you in Slayer school?"

"Oh, we don't need to go to school," Faith replied earnestly. The biscuit in her hands was begging to be eaten, and Faith, well, she didn't have the heart to resist. She split the biscuit in half and slathered it with honey butter. The butter melted into the bread, leaving a glistening golden trail in its wake. "We're just naturally this amazing." She smirked before taking a giant bite. "Biscuit?" she offered through a gobful of the Colonel's best.

"Later. What'd you find out?"

Faith swallowed. "Murder in 1881 or so. Guy likes girl; girl doesn't like guy. Guy kills girl; guy gets hung."

"Anything suggesting a haunting?"

"Not in the paper. I only got through about the last thirty years . . . I'll probably need to come back tomorrow. Unless you want to do the rest of it?"

He shuddered theatrically. "No thanks. Wanna hear what I found out?"

"Shoot."

"The victim – Jess Taylor – had just recently broken up with her boyfriend. Talked to her roommate, Libby. Apparently, Jess and the boyfriend fought, and things got rough."

"He hit her?"

"Not that Libby knew of. But he yelled some pretty nasty things. Libby said she was in her bedroom with her headphones in, and she could still hear them arguing."

"And the restaurant manager?"

"Jess was a perfect employee. Never called in sick, always showed up on time, stayed late to help the kitchen staff clean up sometimes. Everybody liked her."

The Slayer made a skeptical noise, deep in her throat. "Sounds like a saint."

"You got a problem with saints?" he asked, curious.

Faith chuckled without humor. "Everybody's got a dirty little secret, Dean. You, me, your dead waitress included. Some are just bigger than others."

Their eyes met. Slayer and hunter shared a moment of silent understanding.

"So," Faith continued, "we still on for Plan A?"

"You game?"

"Why not? It can't be more boring than research."

* * *

In the words of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce Version 1.0 (Sunnydale, California, circa 1999), glibness was unbecoming in a young lady. Admittedly, Faith was not much of a lady. Nor, for that matter, did she feel particularly young. Twenty minutes into Plan A, however, and she was beginning to admit that Good Ol' Wes might have had a point.

Telling Dean Winchester than Plan A couldn't be boring had not been a good idea. He had taken her bravado at face value and dropped her off at the Accomac Inn with nothing more than a few useless pieces of sarcastic advice. Faith had left her case notes and the two research texts with the hunter, giving him the strict injunction to do some of the reading. Dean laughed and took off for the police station.

Well. Here went nothing. Squaring her shoulders, Faith carefully tugged her black sweater into place and twisted her hair up into a tight bun. She set a pair of tortoiseshell cat eye glasses on her nose – purchased at the local drug store ten minutes previous – and checked her pale pink lipstick in the reflection of her phone screen.

It wasn't her, but it would do. The Slayer inhaled deeply. Monsters were easy; people were hard. But if she could kill monsters, she could charm people. Right? Of course right. She walked confidently into the restaurant and informed the hostess up front that she was looking for a waitressing job. Did she know if they were currently hiring?

Forty-five minutes and a thick ten-page paper application later, she was meeting with the restaurant manager, who lived up to Dean's quick description of him.  _James Hirsch, thirty-five, beginnings of a beer belly, tattoos peeking out from beneath his white shirt, smarter than you'd expect._

James Hirsch was indeed smarter than Faith had expected. He appeared stressed, with slight wrinkles around the cuffs of his collared shirt and fine lines stretching across his forehead. The first words out of his mouth, "We don't deal with nonsense here," were supported by the flinty look in his gray eyes. Faith suspected instantly that her usual attitude would be useless.

She hastily ran through her list of female acquaintances, searching for someone to emulate. Either Willow or Fred would babble. None of her Slayerettes were particularly good under pressure, either. Buffy would likely come across as a ditz. So, to her surprise, Faith found herself slipping into the skin of Cordelia Chase: a little more sophisticated, a little more fashion-conscious, a little less sardonic, a little more serious.

Even still, Mr. Hirsch was skeptical of Faith – he didn't believe in things that showed up "in the nick of time" or anything that could ever be construed as "too good to be true." But, he allowed grudgingly, they were rather short-staffed at the moment, and he did not have the luxury of his usual lengthy application and interview process. Several waitresses had called in sick that morning – and for the past three mornings previous, ever since the recent unpleasantness.

"I don't usually do this," he concluded at the end of their interview, gruff tone testifying to his reluctance, "but can you start today? We're that empty-handed."

Faith smiled. "That actually works well. Thank you so much!"

Mr. Hirsch shook his head. "No, it's you who's helping us out. We'll give you some quick on-the -job training, and then you'll be ready to start before the dinner rush comes in. This is just temporary, mind. We'll evaluate your work in a week or so and let you know then if we can keep you on. All right?"

"Sounds fair to me. Um, sir, can I ask you a question first?"

He looked across his desk at her wearily. "Yes, Ms. Lehane?"

The Slayer managed to appear embarrassed. "What time does the shift end tonight? I don't have a car at present, and I'd like to give my ride a heads up."

"The restaurant officially closes at ten, but your shift does not end until eleven o'clock." It was issued as a challenge. "Will that be a problem?"

"Not at all. Thanks again, sir. I really appreciate this."

With a sigh, the manager stood and extended his hand for her to shake. "Welcome to the Accomac, Ms. Lehane. Now let's go find Nancy – the senior waitress today – she'll show you around."

Faith took his hand and shook it once. Mr. Hirsch's grip was firm but clammy. She suppressed her own discomfort. Clammy hands didn't mean anything. Even if they did gross her out. Surreptitiously wiping her hands against her dark jeans, she followed the manager out of his office and down the stairs to the main restaurant. One hand on the bannister as she descended, she whipped her phone out of her coat pocket and sent a quick text message.

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135558061  
** **Time: 4:15 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Got the job. Get off at eleven. Don't be late.

. . .

The reply came back almost instantaneously.

**To: 2135558061  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 4:16 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Knew you could do it. I'll hit the library when I finish here, go through the rest of the newspaper. Eleven on the dot it is.

. . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135558061  
** **Time: 4:17 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Thanks.

. . .

* * *

By the time eleven o'clock finally came, Faith had concluded three things. First, fancy American-style cuisine was confusing and overrated. Second, people sucked at tipping, even at fancy restaurants. Third, everyone at that restaurant, from Nancy the other waitress to Jack the sous chef to Phoebe the hostess, appeared to be on happy pills. Like, prescription-strength happy pills. And that, she thought, saying goodbye to Mr. Hirsch for the evening, was deeply suspicious.

She stuck her head into the kitchen to tell the cooking staff good night and was handed a heavy styrofoam container full of leftovers for her trouble. The Slayer called a cheerful "goodnight" over her shoulder as she stepped outside into the cold night. Her eyes darted across the parking lot, scanning the darkened vehicles for a familiar outline. When they lit on Dean's black muscle car, she exhaled in relief. It had been a frakking long day.

"Honey, I'm home."

Dean narrowed in on the to-go box in her hands. "Faith, the sexy librarian, bringing home the bacon?"

"I think it's Thai meatballs? And an Asian pear salad?"

The hunter blinked. "Pears come in Asian? What the hell?"

"Dunno. Guess we'll find out." Faith buckled her seatbelt. "How was the library, dear?"

"Ha." Taking the cue, Dean backed the Impala out of the parking lot and headed for their motel. "Took me three hours. Scanned the whole backlog of the newspaper. No similar murders except for the three you already found."

"So. We're back to square one. It could be a serial killer."

He hesitated. "Maybe. Lemme show you the case files when we get back."

Faith groaned. "Dean. They want me here at nine tomorrow morning for more training… and they want me to work a double."

"Sounds like you're hitting it off well."

She made a non-committal noise. "People tip like sh-t here."

"And that surprises you?" he scoffed. "Wake up, Faithy. It's a brave new world."

"Don't call me that."

"O-kay. Thanks for your notes, by the way. They're really good."

But Faith didn't feel like playing tonight. The rest of the drive back was made in silence. She ignored his attempt to make nice – putting a Kansas cassette into the tape deck – by turning her face to the window. When they arrived at the motel, the Slayer walked ahead of him into their room, shutting the door behind her and leaving Dean to fumble for his own room key.

She didn't like being called "Faithy." It was one of Angelus's little pet names, and whenever she heard it,  _he_ was suddenly present. Cold, dark eyes watching her, freezing her to the bone. Teeth ripping into her skin, simultaneously stabbing and burning.  _That_  had been real enough, and it was horrid.

Even worse were the things that had only happened in her dreams. Angelus had made enough suggestive comments to populate a century's worth of nightmares. And Faith's imagination seemed determined to ensure she experienced every one of them.

Tortured by a psychopath? Check. Raped to death? Check. Turned into a vampire? Check. Waking up in a black silk lined coffin and clawing her way out? Check. Looking in the mirror to not see her face? Check.

Being a four-year-old and watching her mother be murdered by Angelus? Check. Stuck in another hospital coma, able to listen and think but unable to communicate, while Angelus sat by her bed and confided his horrific plans for everyone she had ever cared about before slitting her wrist – just the one – and slowly draining her dry, completely unnoticed by the hospital staff? Check, check, check.

Slamming the styrofoam container on the table, Faith headed for the bathroom and locked the door. She spun the shower dial as hot as it would go and started undressing, leaving her clothes in a pile by the sink. She yanked the bobby pins from her bun and tossed them, one by one, onto the counter. Each quiet little  _ping_  did something to relieve the tension in her stomach.

What the  _hell_  had just come over her? Her heart raced, her eyes burned, her hands shook. Just a nickname could do this to her. A stupid frakking nickname, and now she was reduced to this, jonesing for a cigarette, or a fight – or worse.

The knock came, as she had expected. Three short, sharp raps. "Faith. You okay in there?"

"Go away, Dean."

"Whatever it was that I said, I'm sorry."

She choked back the diatribe blossoming on the tip of her tongue. Words born of fear and frustration, of anger and feeling trapped, would only make things worse. "It's fine, Dean," she said through the particleboard door. Faith braced it with one shoulder, just in case. "It's been a long day. We can talk about the case tomorrow."

"Faith – "

"I'm taking a shower," she announced, although the sound of running water made it unnecessary. "I smell like kitchen grease. You should eat the leftovers; I can't look a Thai meatball in the face right now."

A short pause followed, while she removed the final bobby pin and ran shaky hands through her thick brown hair. She listened to the muffled sounds of footsteps moving away and then back again.

"Do you want your pajamas?"

The offer broke the tension within. Faith felt something snap, like a rubber band finally stretched beyond its capacity, and she leaned her head back against the door. When she spoke, her voice was resigned, exhausted. "Can you slide them under?"

"Sure." The corner of a pair of plaid pants slowly came into view through the thin aperture between the linoleum and the particleboard. Faith tugged them the rest of the way through, and then her T-shirt. Another moment of silence commenced, punctuated only by the shower and Dean's rhythmic breathing.

"Thanks."

"I'll see if I can find something on the TV. You like monster movies?"

She waited until the urge to laugh hysterically passed. "Sure. I'll see you in a minute."

"Okay." The quiet noise of him walking away. Then the television came on, loud and harsh.

Faith stepped into the shower and let the scalding water course over her skin, washing away the grime of the restaurant. Maybe, if she stayed in here long enough, the shower would wash away her, too.

 


	11. A Haunting We Will Go, pt 3

**January 22** **nd** **, 2004 York, Pennsylvania**

Dean woke at six a.m., bleary-eyed and exhausted. Momentarily, he contemplated flopping over onto his other side and falling back asleep. But then he heard it; the shower was running again. Excellent. He had a minute to investigate.

The hunter sat up – eyes wide open now. He canvassed the room quickly, taking note of key details. The unmade bed opposite his. The half-empty pack of cigarettes on top of the television.  _Across the River_ , open on the desk, accompanied by Faith's spiral notebook and an abandoned pen. Prompted by intuition, Dean reached across the space between the two queens and checked. Sure enough, his suspicions had been accurate: the bed was stone cold.

As the running water trickled to a halt, its absence revealed another sound, too quiet to have been heard previously. It was Faith. At first, he thought she was just talking to herself – which, honestly, wouldn't surprise him much at this point. But then he realized she was singing. Huh. Vampire Slayers sang in the shower. Who knew?

"I'm standing on a bridge . . . waiting in the dark. I thought that you'd be here by now. There's nothing but the rain, no footsteps on the ground. I'm listening but there's no sound. Isn't anyone trying to find me? . . . Won't somebody come take me home?"

He didn't recognize the song, which made sense. It sounded poppy. Dean only listened to pop music under duress. Weirdly enough, this whole thing was making him feel awkward. Although he had not technically done anything, Dean felt that he was invading her privacy just by listening. He should probably do something. Trip over a chair or knock a book to the floor or turn on the television. Something to let her know that she had an audience. But . . .

"It's a damn cold night. Trying to figure out this life. Won't you take me by the hand? Take me somewhere new. I don't know who you are, but I . . . I'm with you."

The bathroom door opened, and a towel turbaned head emerged. "Oi, voyeur. Want to go pick up breakfast from the diner? I'll have my hair dry by the time you get back."

"Uh…"

"I'll take an omelette. Gotta start prepping for fancy American waitressing. Omelettes are fancy, aren't they?"

"Uh… You sound excited this morning?" Dean hazarded, climbing out of bed and picking up his jeans. He did not want to have another door slammed in his face or be locked out of the bathroom again.

Faith grinned, her gaze lingering on the man's bare chest. Some people had to pay money for views like this. "While  _someone_  was snoring, I was reading that brick over there. And guess what?"

"What?"

"I know where the body's buried." Still grinning, she stepped fully into the room. With one tug, the turban came free, and her wet hair tumbled down. "Isn't that important?" she asked teasingly, toweling it dry. "In case it's not actually a serial killer?"

Dean's fingers froze, halfway through buttoning up his shirt. "I could kiss you."

The Slayer glanced up from drying her hair. "Mmm. If I've got this right, doesn't it go kill the monsters, save the day,  _then_  kiss the girl?"

"I don't think the order really matters that much."

"Mmm." Another long once-over. "You have a point. Probably should hold off on that until we do solve this thing, though."

Wondering – and not for the last time – how Faith compared to the other Slayers, Dean wedged his way past this particular Slayer into the bathroom. Faith moved automatically out of his way. He unplugged the hotel's cheap hairdryer from the outlet and handed it to her. "Here."

"Huh?"

"My turn. And then we're both going to go to the diner."

Faith waited until the door was closed before voicing her next comment. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?" came the muffled response.

"You should sleep shirtless more often."

"Hey, Faith?"

"Yeah?"

"You first."

* * *

As a general rule, the second day of any investigation got pretty boring. Dean was aware of this. In fact, he had expected it. On Day One, you usually started out with a thousand questions and very little idea of what you were up against. By Day Two, however, you had better have a working hypothesis and a list of questions to get answered and people to talk to. Unless you got any sudden breakthroughs, it was mostly crossing things off a list. Make sure you interviewed all the right people, read all the right local legends, and prepared for trouble.

Dean had worked hundreds of jobs, with his dad or Sammy or Bobby or another of John Winchester's hunting buddies. He was well-acquainted with the traditional formula, with the dullness and exhaustion that was Day Two. You couldn't really hope for things to pick up on Day Two. You had to put in the people time and do the research. No self-respecting monster attacked on Day Two.

Working with Faith made things different. Faith, he could tell, wasn't aware of the formula. To his surprise, she had bluntly refused to impersonate a law enforcement officer – from  _any_  agency. The hunter was so used to doing things the way John Winchester did them – you stay sharp, you stay on top, you follow orders. The only other way of doing things he had any experience with was Sammy's – and given the amount of yelling, arguments, and hissy fits that followed, he didn't think that was worth much.

But Faith, Faith didn't do orders. She  _talked_. She talked, she flirted, she questioned. She was somewhere in the middle – not his commanding officer, not his constantly complaining little brother. And it was  _nice._ To open a text message and have it be a joke about a suspect's hair rather than an angry demand. To have someone wondering what he wanted for lunch and asking him questions about ghosts – and, what's more, actually listening to the answers.

This time, Day Two seemed to be flying by. His interviews – checking out a couple more things with the local police, paying Mike O'Malley a call to ask about the Coyle murder – were less awkward than usual. He didn't even mind going back to the library a second time to fact check some lore about hauntings. If this was a ghost attack, why had the ghost just started murdering people a decade ago when he had been dead for over a century?

The people at the Accomac Inn were giving Faith a half hour for lunch, so he drove himself over there a little after two. She snuck out of the restaurant, and they leaned against the side of the Impala. Dean chowed down on a pulled pork sandwich (courtesy of the Inn) while Faith lit up.

"It's just one of those days," she explained, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. "Too slow and then too fast. The food comes too late, or its too cold, or someone spills their wine glass all over themselves. Can you believe it? I'm working at a place where people have wine for lunch."

"You got anything for me?" he asked between bites.

"I don't know . . . maybe." Faith frowned slightly, and a thin vertical line appeared between her eyebrows. "Not sure. I'm getting a vibe – my spidey senses are tingling – but I don't know what yet. Maybe I'll be able to tell you tonight, maybe not until tomorrow . . . they want me to work another double."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "They must love you."

"Eh. What's not to love?" The winter wind gusted up, blowing out Faith's smoke. She stared at the extinguished cigarette regretfully and then tapped it so that the ash landed on Dean's boots.

"Hey. Watch it."

The Slayer sighed. "I'd better go in. Pick me up at eleven again?"

"Sure thing. How're you holding up?"

She considered the question momentarily. "Whatcha mean?"

"Day two of a hunt. It's always more boring than Day one. Usually, anyways," he added at her skeptical glance.

Dropping her cigarette butt onto the asphalt, Faith squashed it with the heel of her boot. "Dean Winchester, you are a marvel." She patted the hunter's arm absently. Then, without so much as a glance over her shoulder, she returned to the restaurant.

* * *

**January 23** **rd** **2004, York, Pennsylvania 3:00 a.m.**

It was the whimpering that woke him. Sounded like someone was beating a puppy. He blinked slowly, glancing around the darkness for the source of the noise. After searching the room, his gaze lit on Faith on the other bed closer to the door. The Slayer was rolling from side to side, twitching and muttering. Dean was disappointed but not shocked. If his guesses about her behavior that morning had been right, this was the third night in a row that her nightmares had woken one of them up.

Until this point, Dean had just left it alone. Faith's vault of secrets was off-limits. But now this was just getting to be too much.

"Faith," he called, his voice just above a whisper. No response, except for more tossing and turning and a panicked, "No. Stop."

"Faith," Dean repeated, somewhat louder. "Faith. Wake up. You're dreaming."

Suddenly, the Slayer startled upright. She was out of the bed and across the room in half a second. She leaned against the opposite wall, brandishing a serrated Bowie knife, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the dark. Chest heaving with each breath, the Slayer stared at him in utter incomprehension.

"Faith." Moving slowly, Dean pulled his covers back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. "Easy, Faith. It's Dean. We're in Pennsylvania. The Coyle murder, remember?"

She blinked. Something clicked in that sleep-muzzled head, and the knife dropped to her side. "Dammit." Faith turned her back on Dean and pressed her forehead into the wall. Her question was muted by the wallpaper. "What time is it?"

"Three a.m."

After swearing a second time, the Slayer asked in an emotionless voice, "I guess it's too early to pick back up on the hunt again?"

Lowering his hands, Dean tried to relieve the tension. "Kinda need my five hours' beauty sleep. This handsome face has to have some down time."

"Sh-t."

"Faith, you need to sleep, too."

This time, she looked at him. "Can't sleep. Not if this keeps happening."

The hunter sighed. "Are we going to talk about it?"

"What?" Faith shook her head violently. "No. We're not going to talk about it."

"Okay. It's just that, this is the third night you've done this, Faith – you got the shakes on the drive down," he explained. "And we've only been on this hunt for four days. I'm kind of starting to think this is a chronic thing of yours. So, I gotta wonder, how long has this been going on?"

"How long has what been going on?" she hedged.

"The nightmares."

She didn't answer, simply looked at him, her eyes still wide and rolling like a horse's. Dean waited, counting on her to break the awkward silence first.

After sixty seconds or so, she did. "I told you about the love bite on my neck."

"Mmm."

"Well, right before the vampire bit me, he, uh, he threatened to turn me." Faith ran her fingers along the edge of the Bowie knife, hard enough to feel something but gentle enough to not cut herself. "We had a history, I guess you could say. Sometimes," she paused, "sometimes I dream that he went through with it. It's, um, not pleasant."

"Can't imagine that it would be."

Faith snorted. "Yeah. Anyway, the dreams didn't show up until a good few months after … Guess I was too busy saving the world to worry about my own crap. Used to just get 'em every other week or so. Now it's nearly every night." She kept her voice casual as her fingers stroked the knife. "Lately, I've just been avoiding sleep." Her gaze became a direct challenge. "So what's your big solution, Sleeping Beauty?"

Dean sighed again. "Come here." He swung his legs back into the bed and scooted over to the side, sitting up against the headboard. When Faith remained still at the wall, he repeated, "Come here."

Normally, Faith would have told Hunter Ken exactly where he could stick his crap and run out. But it was three a.m. in the frakking morning, and she hadn't gotten above four hours of sleep a night for the last three weeks. She dragged her feet as she went, but still the Slayer approached. Faith eyed the foot of space on the mattress that Dean had just vacated for a long moment before sitting. She kept her back to him as she lay down.

"I don't do this kind of thing," Faith announced to the empty air. She closed her eyes. The bed was warm, and she could hear the man's breathing. She listened intently to the inhales and exhales, focusing on the sound. Relaxing slightly, Faith rolled to her other side.

He was right there. Closer than she would like. Closer than she ever let people get with their clothes on. Through her eyelids, Faith could feel the man's gaze. One of her knees bumped into his ankle. "How is this supposed to help?"

Dean forced some humor into his voice to conceal his own worry. Faith's strange behavior had him unsettled. "Here's what might work. Permission to touch?"

"Permission granted," the Slayer acceded reluctantly.

"Open your eyes and come here."

First, one eyelid lifted, and then the second. Hesitantly, Faith raised her eyes to meet his. Dean was sitting watching her, a cool, measuring look on his face.

"Come here," Dean said a final time, voice deep and resonant.

She sat up and shifted over, sliding along the cotton poly-blend sheets until her right hip met his side and her chin brushed his shoulder. Dean took over from there. One arm wrapped around Faith and held her close. The other hand began tracing the barbed wire wire tattoo on her right arm. Faith turned her face into his chest and shut her eyes again. The darkness was safer, somehow.

Thankfully, Dean didn't say anything for a long moment. He just breathed, slow and steady, in and out, in and out, and doodled on her arm. After a minute or two, Faith found her breathing matching his. No one had held her like this since she was a small child, not even Angel. That was an oddly painful thought, so she pushed it away.

Clearing his throat, the hunter said quietly, "When my brother Sam was about eight, he found out about hunting, and he started having nightmares. He didn't want anyone to know, but we were always sharing a bed in a motel, so he couldn't hide them from me. I remembered this working on him when he was little, so, one night when he was having a bad dream, I just pulled him up against my shoulder and sang to him until he fell back asleep."

Faith found herself relaxing, almost against her will. "How cute. Are you going to sing to me?" she asked Dean's shoulder.

With a chuckle, he shook his head. "Only if you beg me to." A brief silence followed, and then, "Faith, when was the last time somebody took care of you?"

"Well, Giles and the rest of the Watcher's Council are currently footing this motel room bill, if that's what you mean."

Her attempt at flippancy didn't get past him. "No. When was the last time somebody actually took care of you?"

"Maybe . . . when I was six. That was about when my dad took off and my mom lost it . . . I don't exactly inspire that 'taking care of' instinct in people, I guess."

The hunter frowned. "Why are you always kicking yourself when you're down?"

"I dunno. Works faster than waiting for someone else to kick me."

"Why would anyone want to kick you?" The Slayer didn't respond. "Never mind. Secrets, right?"

"Right," Faith whispered.

Lifting his hand from her shoulder, Dean asked, "Can I try something?"

"What?"

He let the back of two fingers rest against the left carotid pulse near the base of her neck. "It freaks you out when anyone touches the bite, doesn't it? Even though it's pretty much invisible now?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Can you hold still for me? I'm gonna try something."

Faith stiffened, and her eyes snapped open. "Dean, not a good idea. I'm still trying to deal with whatever the hell it is you're doing here. I don't do non-platonic cuddling, remember? Much less platonic cuddling."

Ignoring her, Dean brushed his knuckles along the path of the vampire bite. Faith bit her lip. Just the thought of people touching her vampire scars was usually enough to send her into the land of the deeply uncomfortable. This was almost more than she could handle. " _Dean_."

Still, he did not retreat. "As long as you're afraid of the bite itself, that vampire is winning. That vampire is beating you. Do you want him to keep winning, Faith?"

"No," she croaked, eyes burning. One tear, then two, and then a torrent of them were dripping down her face onto Dean's t-shirt. Faith let the tears fall without remorse. It was three a.m. in the frakking morning, and she hadn't slept properly in a week. "No, okay? I don't want him to win."

Finally, Dean dropped his hand. "Okay. Then what are you going to do about it?"

She shoved him away, checking her strength so that she only pushed him across the bed and not the room. Wiping at her streaming eyes, Faith glared balefully. "I think I'll find some redneck hunter Barbie to give me a lovely hickey right on top of the scar. That'll fix it, don't you think? Or maybe I could get the vampire himself to do it. That should settle the nightmares right proper."

"Why are you talking British?"

The Slayer pulled a few very colorful and anatomically impossible commands from her vast collection of profanity and hurled them vehemently at the hunter. In Faith's book, it was always easier (and better) to be angry than to deal with emotion. "You don't get to do this, Dean. You don't get to pretend to be my friend and then frakking touch me when I tell you not to. That's not okay. You  _eve_ _r_ do that again, and I will  _personally_  put you in the ground. Six foot deep. You piss me off enough, and I'll put you down there alive."

He opened his mouth to say something, but Faith cut him off with a savage gesture.

"Not finished yet. I'm not your little brother. I'm not some weepy two-bit whore you can bat your pretty green eyes at. I am Faith the Vampire Slayer. And I don't need your effing help to deal with anything. Not nightmares, not vampire bites, not  _anything_."

With a short pause for breath, Faith finished in a voice of deadly calm. "You'd best remember, Dean Winchester. All those monsters of yours? All those things that go bump in the night? They're scared of  _me_."

Dean sat on the far edge of the bed, watching her warily. He reached one hand beneath his pillow, fingers outstretched wide. They closed around the grip of his Colt. Just in case.

"The way I see it, we've got a few choices here," the Slayer continued after a minute's quiet, when the extent of her bravado had sunk in and she found herself once again exhausted.

"Option one, you try to shoot me with that pretty pistol you've got hidden away, and I break your arm. Option two, you actually shoot me, I still break your arm, and then you get to report to the Watcher's Council how you killed their Slayer. Plus, you spend the rest of your life dealing with the guilt of killing a girl."

"And the other options?"

"Option three, we screw each other's brains out and pretend this never happened. Option four, you apologize for being a dick, I apologize for overreacting, and we put this behind us. So. Which one will it be?"

Once again, Dean attempted to deflect with humor. "Is there somewhere in between three and four?" At Faith's stony gaze, he hurried to retract his previous words. "I'm sorry. I . . . got carried away."

"Hand off the gun?"

Somewhat reluctantly, the hunter released the pistol and set his empty hands in his lap. "See? No gun."

"Good. That's . . . good." Faith swallowed. She collapsed back onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling. "G-d, we're messed up."

Silence.

"I . . . I guess I should apologize for freaking out." She took a couple of deep, ragged breaths. "I don't do helpless. I don't do emotions. I don't do anything deep."

"Must be hard on your friends," Dean commented.

There was more than a tinge of bitterness in the laughter this occasioned. "Friends? Dean, I don't have friends. Every relationship I touch, I destroy. Like just now. G-d, I haven't lost control like that in . . . ages."

"Permission to approach?" Humor seemed to be a better defense than an actual weapon.

"Frak you." On second thought, perhaps not.

"Mmm. I thought we decided to skip option three?"

Faith lurched up off the bed and to her feet. "I gotta go," she said, brushing at her eyes with the back of her wrist, avoiding looking in Dean's direction. "This whole hunting thing was a bad idea. I gotta . . . go." She stumbled across the room and grabbed her backpack. "I'll . . . see you around," she said with a broken smile, her hand on the doorknob.

"Wait." The Slayer hesitated, her fingers curling around the bronze-colored metal. "Faith, I'm sorry. I crossed a line, and I'm sorry. Don't . . . don't run. Or at least wait until morning. You still want to go when the sun comes up, I'll take you to a bus station. I promise."

Shoulders slumping, Faith dropped her bag to the floor and took a few hesitant steps back toward Dean. She sat on the very edge of the bed, her feet planted on the floor, braced for takeoff. "I . . . I guess I'm not much good at people."

"Can I ask you something?"

"That's what gets you in trouble, Dean, remember?" The laugh was more of a sob.

"You don't want to talk to me, I get that. That's okay. And I went about trying to get you to talk all the wrong way."

Faith shook her head at this, remembering how different it had felt for someone to give a damn, just for ten minutes. She could still feel the ghost traces of his hand on her skin, reminding her of what her mom used to do, forever and a day ago..

"But who  _do_  you talk to? There's gotta be somebody, Faith. I don't have a clue about a quarter of the things in that dark head of yours, but what I have seen is kind of scary. Hot, but scary. You can't deal with all that crap by yourself."

"Says who?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Probably every shrink ever."

A sigh. "I don't trust people. The one person I could talk to is kind of in the middle of all this stuff, so . . . kinda rules that one out."

"You could talk to me." He paused as she whipped her head around to look at him with those burning brown eyes. "If you wanted."

"After that little Bedlam episode? You still want to hear me talk?"

"Sure." Dean didn't elucidate on his other reasons: he wanted to find out how dangerous she actually was, and he felt guilty for winding her up. The hunt had been going so well up until then.

She stared him down, that wild-horse gaze of hers that always promised to be five seconds away from bolting. "You first," she said at last. "Secret for secret. You tell me what happened to your little brother, and I'll tell you about Angel."

 


	12. A Haunting We Will Go, pt 4

**January 23** **rd** **, 2004, York, Pennsylvania** **9:00 a.m.**

Dean struggled to get out of bed when his phone alarm went off. The hunter groaned and tugged the cheap motel comforter over his head, which ached like he'd gone ten rounds with a grizzly bear – or fifteen with Cuervo – last night. The phone continued to ring, and Dean bit back a curse behind his teeth. His mouth tasted stale and sour, like a month old loaf of Wonder bread seasoned with crappy Budlight. He threw the comforter down and reached for the phone.

Nine in the bloody morning. Dammit. Not counting the hour or two before Faith's little meltdown, he had only gotten three hours of sleep. Who knew that talking could take so frakking much out of you? The Slayer had required soap opera levels of disclosure about his wunderkind brother before she dished out her own secrets. He could faintly remember how infuriating it had been. She kept asking all these probing, nosy questions and would not let up until he answered them.

On principle, Dean had tried to mask the family skeletons with stories he thought she would find amusing. Sam walking in on him and Janie Lewis that one time senior year shortly before he quit school. Their first werewolf hunt when Dean was sixteen or seventeen. But Faith saw straight through his bullsh-t, and she wanted to know the horror story of how his family had fallen apart. He gave her the Cliff notes version, the one that attempted to paint both John and Sam in a positive light. One look at her face told him it hadn't worked.

Then, when it had been his turn to ask the questions, he realized why Faith called him on his crap – she was an expert bullsh-tter herself. An attempt to get her to spill her guts was worse than getting Sammy to talk about something other than school. His first question, "Who is this Angel guy, anyway?" resulted in a very long pause followed by a short, "He's a friend. And a vampire."

It said something about the lateness of the hour and Dean's overall exhaustion that he had let this one slide. "A vampire? Your friend? How's that work?"

She had launched into a torrent of explanations. Something about a Gypsy curse and wham! - soul enema. Further babble about this Angel souled-vampire guy dating another Slayer – Fluffy? – something like that – and moving to Los Angeles when it didn't work out. Ha. Dean didn't even need to hear more than "vampire-Slayer love story" to have predicted that particular outcome.

The next bit got a little more confusing, due to the gaping holes in Faith's narrative. She was even less straightforward than he had been – and that was saying something. Somehow, the Angel guy had lost his soul again – how did that even work? – and Faith was called in to help capture the bastard because she was one of the few people who would rather capture him than kill him. Dean remembered adding another imaginary checkmark to the "Slayer is psycho" column at this point. In the process of shoving a soul up his –ss, she had OD'd on some designer vamp drug and gotten both of them sky high.

The worst part of the story, Dean decided, as he sat up and shook the last remnants of sleep from his skull, was that Faith didn't realize how  _not okay_  all of it was. You didn't shoot up with vampires – hell, you didn't even  _talk_  to vampires. As far as stupid plans went, it was the most retarded one he had ever heard. And that included some of ten-year-old Sam's brilliant plans to rid the world of all evil and go home to Kansas.

He rose and gathered a pile of clean clothes – jeans, dark undershirt, navy button-up from his duffel bag. The cotton material pooled familiarly in his hands, a welcome return to normal after the bizarre night. A white hotel towel hung off the open bathroom door, and the shower ran noisily. Slayer girl had a thing about showers. They always took her fifteen minutes or more.

The hunter stepped into the bathroom and dropped his clothes with a flop onto the counter by the sink. He examined his face in the mirror, listening to the soft humming coming from the shower curtain. Slayer girl also had a thing for music. Dean ran a hand over the bristles on his chin and wondered how much scruff a FBI agent could get away with. Sallow pouches stood out beneath his red-rimmed eyes, a testament to the effects of sleep deprivation.

"You care if I shave?"

The humming stopped. "Go ahead."

Her voice sounded as weary as Dean felt. Well. That was some consolation. He unzipped his toiletry bag and pulled out a can of Barbasol and his razor. Dean flipped on the hot water tap at the sink and soaked a washcloth in it, which he then used to wipe down his face, loosening up the hair to prevent razor burn. He covered his face in shaving cream from ear to ear and from nose to halfway down his neck. The razor moved with firm, steady strokes.

There was something relieving in shaving. Always had been, ever since Dean was old enough to use a disposable Bic on the three fragile hairs on his adolescent chin. Not shaving was great – it saved time – but there was something about the shaving process itself, restoring order to one small fragment of his universe. Sam probably would've said it was a control thing. Sam used to think everything was a control thing.

He had almost finished when Faith's arm reached out from behind the curtain in search of a towel. Dean handed her one and stepped closer to the sink in order to let the towel-clad Slayer pass. She closed the door behind her as she ventured into the bedroom to change. A few minutes later, they were standing next to one another while they brushed their teeth. She had put on a pair of dark jeans, a red cardigan, and knee high brown boots. The librarian bun and glasses were making their second appearance.

The weird thing was, Dean concluded as he stared down his reflection, mouth white with toothpaste, none of this fazed him that much. Slayer girl was hot. Okay. Slayer girl had baggage. Okay. Slayer girl might or might not be certifiably crazy. Okay.

Her friendship with a vampire ought to bother him. It would have infuriated his father. John probably wouldn't have let Faith say much more past "He's my friend. And he's a vampire" before throwing a pair of zip-ties on her wrists, slamming her in the back of the Impala, and taking off for California to end the bastard. Or, at the very least, John would have lectured her about letting her vampire crap prevent her from looking out for her hunting partner.

But, oddly, Dean didn't much care. He knew what he should do: get the vampire's address and call one of John's contacts out Los Angeles way. But that wasn't what he did. Instead, Dean took a shower and got dressed, then swung through a Mickey D's drive-in on his way to drop Faith off at work. He focused on the case at hand and left last night's phantoms where they belonged.

* * *

**To: 2135558061  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 12:00 p.m.  
** **Message:**

How's it going?

. . . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135558061  
** **Time: 12:15 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Swamped. Break at 2. Talk then?  
. . .

**To: 2135558061  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 12:17 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Sure. Lunch?

. . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135558061  
** **Time: 12:30 p.m.  
** **Message:**

I'll get you something. Bring Advil?

. . .

**To: 2135558061  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 12:35 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Thx. You ok?

. . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135558061  
** **Time: 12:40 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Yeah. Thanks.

. . .

Dean tucked the phone back into his pocket and lifted Faith's notebook off the motel table. Her handwriting vacillated between the barely legible and the painstakingly neat. He skimmed her notes and flipped pages quickly. She had told him most of this yesterday, or the day before, but something about the supposed location of Coyle's grave was bothering him. If he could find it today, they could dig up the bones and take care of them that evening. Wrap this thing up quickly.

Maybe if he found the grave, did something obvious, it would flush the ghost out of hiding. If it was a ghost. He wasn't quite sure yet – technically, it still might turn out to be a serial killer. The local P.D. hadn't been turning up any leads.

Jess Taylor's boyfriend, Luke, had failed to be a convincing suspect. Dean's mid-morning drop by at Luke's work, the local hardware store, had been particularly unhelpful. None of his coworkers had anything out of the ordinary to say about him. He was a nice guy, completely destroyed by Jess's death. According to his manager and the guy in charge of making keys, Luke had been minding the counter at the time of the murder.

Left without any suspects, the police said that they were considering tabling the investigation. This pointed Dean even more strongly towards it being a ghost problem. Now, all he needed to do was get some corroborating evidence from Faith or the staff at the Accomac, find the grave, and call it a job well done. It wouldn't be the fastest turn around on a Winchester salt-and-burn. Not by a long shot.

He turned another page and then paused. His gaze landed on one of Faith's many doodles. Most of them were cartoonish – stick figure vampires in front of blank tombstones, triangle-shaped stakes dripping blood, wriggly five-pointed stars – but this one was different. Someone had actually spent time on this. It was the drawing of a man with a Frankenstein head and a black coat. At first, pride wounded, Dean wondered if it was supposed to be him, but then he saw the caption beneath the doodle, thick, spiky letters that had been traced over and over again:  _Angel_.

Yeah. It was official. Whoever this vampire bastard was, if he ever met him, Dean was so going to kick his ass.

* * *

He made sure that today he was early to meet Faith. The sooner they got this case over and headed back to Cleveland, the better. She must have been thinking something similar. No sooner had Dean pulled up in the Impala than Faith appeared at the back door of the inn, a foil-covered plate in her hands. Despite the cold, they stood outside to talk. Faith hastily dry-swallowed the Advil that he brought and lit a cigarette.

"That bad?" Dean could really get used to these pork sandwiches.

Faith exhaled slowly, her eyes on the restaurant. "This guy keeps hitting on me. He's not so good at picking up on the hints." She inhaled. "Guess it could be worse. He answers every question with a monologue."

"Mmm. Did you find out about the grave?"

"Supposedly a hundred yards north of the Inn. That's not very specific, though. It's got a headstone, which should help. Think you can find it?"

"Shouldn't be a problem. You okay?"

She brushed off his concern. "I'm fine."

"Advil?"

"Headache. Didn't sleep last night, remember?"

"About that . . ."

"Dean, just leave it."

Mouth full of sandwich, all he could do was look at her reproachfully. "Faifff…"

The hint of a smile turned up the corners of her mouth. "Let's just pretend it didn't happen, okay?"

Dean swallowed. "Okay. What time do you finish tonight?"

"Nine. They're letting me off early for good behavior."

"You get a dinner break?"

"Nope. Just fifteen minutes or so at seven. Probably take more advil then, if this hasn't gone away yet."

"You need anything?"

"A beer. G-d. When this is over, I'm thinking of becoming a hermit."

"Oh, so it  _is_  that bad?" The mental image of Faith as a hermit was too much, and Dean laughed.

"You have no idea," she drawled with a droll smile. "Customer service sucks. So, at noon, we had this one lady who . . ."

* * *

"Hey, Faith, can I ask you something?"

Faith Lehane glanced over her cats-eye glasses at the brunet man standing next to her, rather closer than she would have preferred, and silenced a groan. "Sure, Jack," she smiled. She untied her apron and hung it on the staff room door. Taking the bills and coins out of its pocket, she sat down in a rickety wooden chair and began counting her tips.  _One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

Jack seated himself next to her and swallowed nervously. His blue eyes flicked towards the Slayer and then away again, as if he were afraid of what would happen if she caught him staring.

"What's up, Jack?" Faith prompted.  _Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen._

"Do you . . . are you . . . I mean . . . would you like to go out sometime?"

_Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one._  Faith kept her eyes on the slowly growing stack of ones in front of her. She'd save him the embarrassment of eye contact. "Oh, Jack, I'm sorry, but I'm seeing someone." There. That sounded like authentic regret.

_Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six._ "It's that guy, isn't it?" Jack asked glumly.

"Hmm? Sorry, I just lost count." Faith picked up the pile of ones and started over at the beginning to support her lie.

"That guy. The one who visits you at lunch. The one with the muscle car."

Her warning signals began revving their engines. Faith gave up on counting her tips and pocketed them. She grabbed her coat from the rack by the door. "I'm sorry, Jack," she repeated, managing to appear truly sorrowful. "I've got to go. Maybe some other time."

She rushed out the door and hurried down the hall towards the outside parking lot. It was only eight forty-five, fifteen minutes before she had told Dean to meet her, but Faith did not want to stay another moment in that restaurant. It made her skin crawl, even if the EMF meter Dean had gotten her to clip to her belt hadn't gotten her off all day. She didn't like this espionage-type stuff. That was part of the awesomeness of being a Slayer. You just introduced yourself, smiled the word "Slayer," and people instantly knew where you stood.

Faith looked across the empty parking lot, but no Impala. It wasn't Dean's fault, she forced herself to admit grudgingly. She had told him nine o'clock, and so far, he had always been right on time.

Brrr. It was cold. She breathed slowly, in and out, through her mouth, watching the water vapor condense into white air as she did so..  _Calm down, Faith_.  _Nothing to get spooked about. Just your resident small town creeper. Nothing's wrong. It's just people._

Still, something felt wrong. The Slayer reached one hand down and checked for her ever-present arsenal - a stake in her left boot and a knife in her right. In case anyone was watching, she pretended to stretch while she slid a hand underneath her cardigan and removed her second dagger from its sheath between her shoulder blades. Weapon in hand, Faith could relax. She was a Slayer. She was prepared. She could handle anything.

Shifting her weight from one foot to another, Faith revolved on the spot, a quarter turn at a time. She had her gaze set on the road, listening for the familiar rumble of an old Chevy engine. Might as well check her phone while she waited. Six new messages. There was an excited series from Dean:  _Found the grave. Looks a bit scuffed up. I'll get the stuff. Meet me outside at nine, and we'll send this bastard back to Hell._

Faith checked the time. Ten more minutes to go. Somewhat irritated, she wished that Dean had cared to tell her where the grave was. She could have just met him there. The Slayer thumbed through her other four texts. One from Andrew, telling her that he was back in Cleveland – and where had she disappeared off to? An angrier message from Robin, demanding the answer to the same question. Her bluff through Giles must not be working.

To her surprise, the last two had come from Wesley's phone. The first one was fairly standard – a recap of the week's cases with short, one-sentence updates on Angel and Spike. The second message, however, threw her for a loop.  _Call me, when convenient._

Well . . . she had nothing better to do. She typed in Wes's number and dialed out. He picked up much sooner than she had expected, his über-posh British voice providing a welcome change from her extremely American customers.

"Faith? To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" Huh. He even sounded surprised.

"Aw, Wes, you're makin' me blush."

"That would be a first, I suspect. What's on your mind?"

"Saw your message. What'dya got for me?"

"Ah, Faith, just one moment, if you don't mind." She heard a door open and close. When Wesley resumed speaking, his tone was much more businesslike. "Thank you for your prompt response. We have had something of a situation here, and I would like your opinion on it."

"My opinion? You want  _my_ opinion?"

"You sound shocked."

"This is kinda a new one for us, Wes. You usually think my opinion's crap . . . and you're usually right . . ."

"Look, I don't have much time. I've just stepped outside the hospital room. They'll be looking for me in a minute."

"Okay. Shoot."

Wesley sighed. "You aren't going to like it."

"Shoot, Wes."

He had been absolutely right. Only, Faith didn't dislike the story he told, of a mad, abused newly-gifted Slayer who kidnapped, tortured, and mutilated Spike. No, she downright hated it. And, the cherry on top of this pile of utter crap, apparently Andrew had been sent by the Council to retrieve the Slayer girl, Dana, and it had ended badly.

"He said  _what_?" Faith demanded as she stuffed her frozen fingers into her armpits. Her gloves were not cutting it.

"Focus, Faith. It is not what he said, but what he implied that concerns me."

"Fine. What did he imply, then?"

"That the entire Watcher's Council, including and perhaps specifically Buffy, knows of our involvement in Wolfram & Hart and no longer trusts us. That we should have no aid from that quarter should we look for it."

The Slayer stopped pacing. The night shifted from cold to absolute zero. Icy fingers closed around Faith's heart. "He  _what_?" The words tumbled, ragged, from her mouth. She struggled to make sense of Wesley's last. Faith swallowed deeply, pursing her lips to protect them from the cold. "What do you want from me, Wes?"

Wesley cleared his throat and forged ahead. "I need to know, Faith. If that is actually the sentiment of the Watcher's Council, we need to be prepared."

"By which you mean . . .?"

"Would Giles support us if we were in trouble? Would Buffy? Or would she prevent her army of Slayers from helping us because she believes we have gone to the dark side?"

"Gotta hand it to ya; you always were one for the mega homework assignments." Something moved in the corner of Faith's peripheral vision. "Hey, Wes, I'll get back with you." Her grip tightened on the knife, and she steeled herself as she completed a final quarter turn.

There he was. Johnny Coyle – or what was left of him – in the ectoplasmic flesh. An almost transparent figure, dressed in ragged trousers, waistcoat, and the tattered remnants of a white dress shirt. Tousled hair framed a round, almost featureless face, made remarkable only by the black eyes that burned within them. The remnants of a hangman's noose dangled from his neck, the rope coiling around his shoulders. In his right hand, he held an antique pistol.

"Drag me to Hell. If it isn't our resident ghost himself." It wasn't a Buffy-level comeback, but it was the first thing that sprang to mind.

What had Dean said to do? What had Dean said to do? But Faith couldn't remember anything, distracted as she was by Wesley's bad news. She raised the knife to chest height and moved into a guard stance. A steel knife would probably be useless against a spirit, but it was the best thing she could think of. The Slayer backed away slowly, hoping the ghost would let her leave. She was rather lacking in mental fortitude tonight.

"Youuuuuuuuuu." The wavering voice cut through her and momentarily found room in that jaded heart for a new fear. Johnny drifted towards her, his sole-less boots hovering six inches above the asphalt. He pointed his hand at her in accusation.

"Hi, Johnny." Faith took another step backwards, extending the knife between her and the ghost. "What do you want?"

"Youuuuuuuuu." The spectral figure lifted its hand and raised the pistol until it was aimed at her heart.

"Gotta love those one-hit wonders." Iron. Iron worked against spirits. Steel had iron, right? Rather than risk it by overthinking, Slayer darted forward and aimed for Johnny's ribs in a blow that would have pierced a werewolf's hide. The phantom disappeared as the steel sliced through him, only to reappear on her left, pistol raised once more.

"Youuuuuuuuuu," accused the ghost. Its finger moved, cocking the pistol.

He was too far away for her to stab this time. "Oh sh-t. Oh sh-t."

Something hit Faith around the stomach, and she crashed to the ground. Her elbow slammed down onto the asphalt, and her head hit hard enough to see stars. Before she could recover, a firm hand had latched onto her wrist and was dragging her to her feet. Her boots scrabbled for purchase on the snowy parking lot, and she almost went down again. An arm encircled her waist and pulled her tight against six feet of wiry muscle until she caught her footing.

"You idiot," growled Dean Winchester, a glorious, welcome sound. He held a shovel in his free hand, and he was brandishing it at the ghost of Johnny Coyle like a pike. The hunter impaled the phantom of the dead farmer. "Come on. I found the grave. We've got to move fast."

He darted to the left, in the direction of the woody copse in front of the Inn, dragging Faith behind him.

"Thanks," she panted as they sprinted across the parking lot, her hand gripped tightly in Dean's own. He led her into the snow-covered trees, hardly slowing down as he wove left, then right, then left again between the trunks. Faith's feet were stupid tonight, and she almost tripped more than once. Each time, the tension linking her to him gave her the stability to keep moving.

Johnny was waiting for them at his grave, a solitary grey headstone in a small clearing surrounded by oak trees. A hole, two feet in diameter and two feet deep, gaped open at his feet: Dean's handiwork.

"YOUUUUUUUUUU," Johnny intoned, this pronouncement even more chilling than the last one. He gesticulated frenetically at the hunter with his pistol.

"Screw you," Dean snapped back, sweeping through Johnny with the shovel. The ghost vanished once again. The hunter turned to Faith. "We don't have much time. Dig or defend?" he demanded impatiently.

"Defend," Faith answered automatically. "What do I have to do?"

The hunter slung his duffel bag to the ground and unzipped it with steady hands. He pulled out a tire iron and threw it to her. "Don't let him get me."

Faith caught the tire iron in one hand. She spun around and surveyed the clearing. "How long?"

Dean cleared the snow off the rest of the grave and stabbed his shovel into the frozen earth. "Till he returns? Could be minutes. Could be seconds."

"And the grave?" Despite her best efforts, the fear crept into her voice.

"I'd better get to work."

"Okay."

"I hate hunting in the winter," he grumbled, more to himself than to her, lifting his first shovelful of dirt and dumping it beside the headstone. "There's salt in the bag. Make a circle around the grave and me, and then stand in it. That should help a little bit. Ghosts can't cross salt."

"Right. Got it." The Slayer followed instructions. She found a decent-sized box of rock salt in the duffel and began to form a protective circle ten feet in diameter. Once the line of white crystal was closed, she breathed a slight sigh of relief. "Can I help dig?"

He spat out an expletive. "Only got one shovel."

"Oh, okay. I'll just stand guard then. Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. I think you just saved my life."

"I owed you one. Now we're square. Just . . . don't let him get the drop on us."

Faith stood at attention, the tire iron balanced in her hands, and walked around the confines of their salt circle until she got in Dean's way and he cursed at her. The hunter had dug about six inches down at the perimeter of the grave when Johnny returned. He appeared over Dean's shoulder, pistol aimed at the man's head.

"Watch out!" Faith called. She whirled and slashed through the ghost with the tire iron. Snarling furiously, Johnny Coyle blinked out of existence.

"Not bad," Dean panted. He had not even bothered to look up from his digging. "You got this."

Johnny returned thrice more before Dean's shovel finally landed on rotted wood with a thud. Each time, Faith attacked the ghost with the iron until he disappeared. By the time they uncovered the actual skeleton, clothed in faded rags, her arms were burning. When she got back to Cleveland, she was so trading in the Slayerettes' quarterstaves for tire irons. They could definitely use the extra muscle.

She extended a hand and pulled a sweating Dean out of the grave. The hunter poured the rest of the rock salt onto the bones, then sprinkled half a can of lighter fluid on top of it.

"Care to do the honors?" he offered.

"What?" The Slayer continued turning her head from side to side, waiting for Johnny's next trick.

"Lighter. Grave. Boom."

"Oh, right." Faith passed over the tire iron. She pulled a Bic lighter out of her jeans pocket and flicked it, one-handed, then dropped the flame onto the bones below. They went up in an anticlimactic surge of smoke. "Good night, Johnny."

* * *

**January 24** **th,** **2004, York, Pennsylvania, 12:15 a.m.**

"You know, that wasn't half bad, for your first hunt," Dean commented. He had downed enough shots to take the edge off, and now not even the crappy pop music playing over the bar's sound system could bother him.

Faith didn't justify this with a reply. Somewhere between the inn, the Impala, and here, she had lost her cardigan as well as her coat. The warm, stale air of the bar caressed her bare shoulders beneath the straps of her tank top, welcoming her home. Nothing in the world could induce her out of her post-Slayage relaxation time.

"Come on," she said after another minute and a third shot of tequila. Faith hopped down from the bar stool. "We're dancing."

"Uh-uh." But the hunter allowed her to pull him across the dance floor. "It's my birthday," he announced seriously as she put her arms around his neck and began moving to the beat.

"Oh yeah?" Faith tossed her head back, shaking out her long, brown hair. "You're a little drunk. You know that?"

Dean's hands meandered down to her hips. "Maybe a little." He closed his eyes while the Slayer danced against him. "We should go."

"In a minute." The whole ghost-stabbing thing had left Faith more than a little tense, and she wanted to work it off. Dancing was the least complicated means of doing so. If it wasn't Dean, it would be somebody else. Still, she preferred it was Dean.

The hunter tried one last time for responsible. "Need to check in with Dad."

"In a minute. It's your birthday. We'll check in later. But right now . . . ?" Her voice trailed off tantalizingly.

"Yeah?"

"Don't talk. Just dance with me."

 


	13. Apoca-What? pt 1

**From: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **To: ZepHead_79** **  
** **Date: February 12, 2004 at 3:30 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: Apocalypse**

You ever see one?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
To: FyreCracker5x5  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 9:00 p.m.  
Subject: RE: Apocalypse

No.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 9:30 p.m.  
Subject: RE:RE: Apocalypse

You want to?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
To: FyreCracker5x5  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 9:35 p.m.  
Subject: RE:RE:RE: Apocalypse

Sure.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 9:40 p.m.  
Subject: Prophecy Says

End of the world's supposed to be next Monday – the 16th. Something called the Sisterhood of Jhe is going to open the mouth of Hell and destroy the universe.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
To: FyreCracker5x5  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 9:45 p.m.  
Subject:**  **That so?**

I'd better stock up on the beer.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 9:50 p.m.  
Subject: RE: That so?

Want to come to Cleveland and fight off the end of the world with me?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
To: FyreCracker5x5  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 10:15 p.m.  
Subject: Tempting

I'm not working a case right now, so why not? How bad can it get?

**. . . .**

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 10:30 p.m.  
Subject: Thanks 

Thanks, Dean. Now we're doomed.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
To: FyreCracker5x5  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 10:35 p.m.  
Subject: RE: Thanks

How can I make it up to you? ;-)

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 10:45 p.m.  
Subject: Apocalypse Monday

World ends Monday night. Get here Sunday. Bring a machete. Or an axe.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
To: FyreCracker5x5  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 10:51 p.m.  
Subject: Deal

See you then. Happy Valentine's.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 10:57 p.m.  
Subject: RE: Deal

Bit early for that, Lonely Hearts Club.

. . . . **  
**

**From: ZepHead_79**  
To: FyreCracker5x5  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 11:00 p.m.  
Subject: Ha

Don't know about you. I'm going out Saturday.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 11:04 p.m.  
Subject: RE: Ha

Challenge – whoever gets the most numbers between now and Sunday gets to sleep in the bed when you get here. Other one takes the couch.

. . . .  **  
**

**From: ZepHead_79**  
To: FyreCracker5x5  
Date: February 12, 2004 at 11:15 p.m.  
Subject: You're On

Challenge accepted. You're going down. Need anything before the Apocalypse hits?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: February 12, 2004 at 11:30 p.m.  
** **Subject: Nah**

Tangled with the Sisterhood of Jhe before. Big dogs are flying in some of the old gang to deal with it. The research force is strong with this lot. Thanks, though. BTW, it's just 'apocalypse'.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: February 12, 2004 at 11:35 p.m.  
** **Subject: Question**

Meeting your friends. Sounds like fun. How're you doing?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: February 12, 2004 at 11:40 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Question**

World's ending in four days. I'm doing fine.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: February 12, 2004 at 11:43 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE:RE: Question**

And the nightmares?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: February 12, 2004 at 11:46 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE:RE:RE: Question**

Kinda got more important things to worry about. Apocalypse and all.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: February 12, 2004 at 11:50 p.m.  
** **Subject: Okay**

Got it. See you Sunday. Stay safe.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: February 12, 2004 at 11:53 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Okay**

You, too.

. . . .

* * *

**February 12, 2004, Cleveland, Ohio, 11:55 p.m.**

"Who're you emailing?"

Faith glanced up from her laptop and closed it with a solid click. "What?" She feigned confusion and forced herself to snap back into the current situation.

The White Hats were having their all-important pre-apocalypse prep conference in her apartment, and distraction was not really an option. She wriggled deeper into the corner of the couch and tucked her computer between the sofa arm and her left hip. The Slayer's eyes darted around the assembled do-gooders to see if any of them were watching her.

Thankfully, Robin and Giles were engaged in a serious conversation in the doorway to the kitchen, the older Brit speaking so quietly that Robin had to lean in to hear him. Xander was simultaneously holding a pow-wow and baking cookies with the Slayerettes and Andrew. She could hear the giggling teenagers from here. Good. No one was paying attention except for Willow.

Unfortunately, the red-haired witch seated at the opposite end of the IKEA couch would not be dissuaded. "You're emailing someone," she repeated, smiling excitedly in her unique Willow way. "And you like them."

Nerves automatically going on edge, Faith kept all emotion out of her voice. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Oh, you were just smiling, and it seemed like you were excited. Well, you were way more interested in your laptop than on Giles' battle strategy." Willow remembered that this wasn't Buffy and that there was little love lost between herself and the guarded ex-convict murderer who was doing a crappy job of playing host. Her smile flickered. "Who is it?" she asked again, unable to contain her curiosity.

"A friend," Faith replied shortly. She stood up and stretched. This conversation was over. Then again, if Dean was going to be showing up Sunday . . . she should probably start doing damage control now. She sat back down, turning towards Willow, trying to pretend the awkwardness and strain in their relationship didn't exist.

"Hey, Willow, can I ask you a favor?"

"Sure." The witch's smiled brightened, but then concern struck. "I mean, as long as it isn't black magic or removing someone's soul or something."

Faith forced a chuckle. "Nah. Nothing like that. This friend of mine, uh, he's a hunter. And he's actually gonna come by and help with the big boss fight."

Willow was still looking at her questioningly, a semi-permanent smile on her face. G-d. Sometimes it was like they were eighteen again, going up against the Sisterhood for the first time. Will was still the nerdy, sensitive, earnestly innocent girl who was dating a werewolf, and Faith the rough around the edges outsider trying to figure out where she belonged. A walk down memory road was so not going to make this any easier.

"So what's the favor?"

Grateful for the prompt, Faith recovered her train of thought. "Right. Um, so I've only known this guy for a couple of months, and I haven't really told him a lot of things."

"Like?"

Yep. Red was definitely going to make her do this the hard way. "What Andrew refers to as the whole Dark Slayer thing."

"Ohhh." The ginger scrunched up her nose as realization hit. "You mean you haven't told him about the Mayor and stuff?"

_Stuff. Double counts of murder-two. Twenty-five to life. That vulcanologist. Trying to kill Angel . . . twice. Body-switching. Sleeping with someone else's boyfriend . . . in that someone else's body. Stuff._

"Yeah." Speaking in thinly-veiled references had never felt so freeing. "So, if you could not mention any of that when he's around, I'd appreciate it."

"No problem." Willow paused, thinking of something. "But you will tell him sometime, right?

Faith smiled stiffly. The facial expression felt weird on her tightened muscles. "Yeah, yeah. I just . . . I'd rather he hears all of this from me."

This was the most open or honest or deep that she'd ever been with Willow, and Faith could not wait for the conversation to end.

"I got you." Red's smile was perpetual. It never went away. Well. . . it had that one time Faith was holding a knife to her neck . . . "Don't worry. I won't say anything."

"Thanks."

"Mmm. Smell that? I think the cookies are out of the oven. Last one to the kitchen's a monster's egg."

"Good idea," Faith lied. "I'm gonna hit the bathroom, but then I'll be right in."

She waited until Willow had squeezed past Giles and Robin into the kitchen before making a beeline for her bedroom. Faith closed the door behind her and hid her laptop beneath the pile of books on her desk. Only a couple more months, and she'd have that G.E.D. all squared away.

After a moment of listening for sounds of approaching Scoobies, she crawled onto her bed and scooted until her back was against the wall. The Slayer pulled her knees up to her chest and tossed her cellphone from hand to hand, resisting the urge to call somebody. She couldn't flee, couldn't escape out the window from the Scooby gang, from the reminders of her past that were colonizing her apartment, but she could call someone.

But who would she talk to? It was midnight, so nine o'clock on the West Coast, but that was still too late to be calling people in California. Wes had that thing with Fred going on, and Angel was finally seeing somebody. Chances were, if they weren't working a case, they were shacking up with their lady friends. Of course, there was Spike, but they hadn't quite gotten to the phone call point just yet. They were more at the stage where they spoke on other people's phone calls. "Here, Spike. Take the phone and talk to Faith while I make eyes at my lady-love." That was them.

Besides, what did she even have to say? "Help, help! The whole Sunnyhell gang is taking over my life again. No, Buffy's not here. She's in Rome, still. Yeah, I can give her a message. Oh, you still love her? Good to know. How much broken-heartedness do you want me to add to that? Nine out of ten? Perfect. B'll be right back to you, as soon as she finishes doing her latest vampire. What? You didn't know. Oh, yes. Buffy's dating the Immortal now."

Yeah. That would end fantastically. Spike or Angel might just decide to start the apocalypse all on their lonesome. Or, even worse, together. Buffy definitely knew how to love 'em and leave 'em in a thousand shattered, angry, bleeding pieces.

Faith admitted herself to be many things, few of them positive, but on one subject, she was proud. She might have murdered a few quasi-innocent people and tried to destroy the world and a couple of fangéd crusaders. She might have the vocabulary of a dockhand and the education of a mountain man. She might be currently living on Watcher's Council paychecks in a hood-adjacent one bedroom apartment. She might go home with any attractive man she met in a bar. She might be a mess, a murderer with decades of atonement to go, but at least she had never slept with a vampire.

_Never have, and never will_ , she told herself, trying to take in as much self-justification and comfort from that thought as she could. But it still wasn't worth much. The phone in her hand continued to taunt her with its promise of a mental escape. Her fingers twitched impulsively, flipping the phone open and typing in the numbers before she could stop herself.  _7, 8, 5, 5, 5, 5, 2, 5, 7, 5._

He picked up on the third ring, voice drowsy. "Hello?" In the background, a rough baritone voice demanded to know who the hell was on the phone. Faith almost hung up.

"It's Faith, Dad," she heard his muffled voice reply. He must have covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "I'll step outside." His voice returned, clearer, "Hang on." She listened to the rustling of fabric and the creaking noise of a door opening on its hinges.

"Hey. What's up?"

Faith debated. Truth, lie, or hang up? She decided for middle ground. "Hey. Sorry to call so late."

"Not a problem. We were just finishing up discussing our latest job – poltergeist who did some things a little . . . unusual. How's research?"

"Heh. My place has been invaded by researchers. I'm hiding out in my room to escape the books."

"Attagirl. So, this thing on Monday . . . it's a sisterhood? Like nuns, or something?"

"Or something. I'll catch you up to speed when you get here. Can we . . . can we talk about something besides work?"

He hesitated, suddenly wary. "Something like what?"

"Dunno. Just, something else."

"Okay. What are you wearing right now?"

"Funny. Something other than that, too."

"Can't blame a guy for trying."

"Mmmm . . . I'll get back to you on that."

"Are you sure you're okay? You seem kinda . . . on edge."

Faith laughed. It came out slightly less hysterical than she had expected, which was a nice surprise. She lowered her voice to just above a whisper. "I avoid most of these people. And now, they're baking cookies in my house. Guess you could say it's a little weird."

"You really like your space."

"Hmmm."

"Do you need a break? I'm in Baltimore. Can be there in six hours. No fun in facing the end of the world with people you don't like."

"You're just worried about getting stuck with the couch. You think if you come up here early you'll get lucky on V-day."

"No strings, Faith. You need me, I can be there by sunrise. You need extra backup, I can call in a couple other hunters, bring my dad, even."

The Slayer took a moment to ponder the mental image of the Scoobies being outnumbered by hunters and their strange affinity for plaid. It was an amusing thought, but she'd heard enough about John Winchester to connect the dots and realize that bringing him in on a Watcher's Council op was not a good plan. She was already beginning to have second thoughts about his son. Still, it was tempting.

"You mean that?"

"Sure. It's the Apocalypse, right? The more hands on deck, the better?"

"Sometimes. This is just a mini-apocalypse. Min-ocalypse? Wee-pocalypse? Anyway, thanks for the offer, but I think we'll be good."

"You sure you don't want me to come up?"

_Yes._  "Nah, it's fine. I'll see you Sunday."

"Faith, if you're in trouble . . ."

"I'm not. Really."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

"Okay. See you Sunday."

She tilted her skull back against the plastered wall and cursed the weakness that prevented her from just saying good night and shutting the phone. What was it Wes had been saying? Something about being honest with people? "Wait . . ."

"Yeah?"

"I wouldn't mind if you showed up early. You know, if you wrap up your poltergeist thing and all."

"I'll be there sometime tomorrow afternoon, okay?"

"You don't have to –"

"Nah. Apocalypse, drama, couldn't keep me away."

"Okay. Uh, thanks."

"Good night. See you tomorrow."

"Night."

Faith listened to the click on the other end of the line. She dropped the phone to the bedcovers and slid down the wall until she was laying flat, stretched out on her bed. The Slayer closed her eyes and focused on the faded noises of Slayerettes talking loudly across the apartment. She rolled over onto one side, back towards the bedroom door, in case anyone came knocking wondering where she was.

Having a hunter in town was just going to complicate things, but at this point, Faith didn't much care. She wondered, not for the last time, why he was so nice to her. And when this was all going to get shot to Hell.

* * *

**February 13** **th** **, 2004, Baltimore, Maryland, 1:30 a.m.**

Back by the Chesapeake Bay, the hunter in question tucked his cell phone into the pocket of his leather jacket and stepped back inside the dingy hotel room. He slid the deadbolt and hooked the chain. This place smelt a hair moldier than the last one, somewhere north of Tallahassee, and he was frankly appalled by the price. As his dad kept reminding him, though, the East Coast was expensive. At least one of the pluses about being on the outskirts of Baltimore was that nobody asked too many questions.

"That the Slayer girl?" Haggard from lack of sleep, his chin covered with five days' worth of black stubble, somehow John Winchester appeared more alert than any fifty-year-old had a right to be at two in the morning. His hand, stained with grease, hovered above the pages of a weathered leather journal, a complimentary ballpoint pen from the motel dangling in his grip. John paused in updating his recent case notes to survey his eldest.

"Yeah." Dean moseyed over to the mini-fridge and withdrew a beer. "Want one?"

"Nah." His father waved a hand in dismissal. "Have a seat, son. What'd the Slayer want?"

The younger man slumped into the rickety wooden chair across from him. He set his beer down on the table, the glass clinking softly as it connected with the wood. Dean ran a hand over his face and yawned. "She says there's some kind of apocalypse thing going down in Ohio. Some demon sisterhood's trying to open a giant gate into Hell or something. Sisterhood of Gee? Wants me to be the hired muscle."

Unfazed, John raised an eyebrow. "Apocalypse, huh?"

Dean shrugged. "I think it's Slayer for any kind of major dust-up. She doesn't seem to be that freaked out by it. Almost . . . excited."

Watching his son carefully, the older man set his pen in the journal to mark his place and then closed the book gently. "So. You think it's worth checking out?"

"Yeah. I mean . . " For the first time, the hunter hesitated. He looked down, away from his father's gaze, his grip tightening on the beer bottle in his hand. "I kinda already promised her I'd come."

John leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his stomach. "I see."

"What?"

"Who'd've thought? Slayers do exist, and my boy's . . . . seeing one. That the right word, Dean?"

"Dad, no. That's not it," Dean said in a hurry to cover his bases. Anxiety reared its head deep in his guts and glanced around. The hunter took a slow, steady sip and ordered the tension inside to calm down.

The older man was actively chuckling now. "No need to act guilty. You forget – I was young once, too. It's the fourteenth day after tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Something like that. But that's not the point."

His father reopened the journal and flipped through it to a half-empty page at the back. He uncapped his pen and wrote a single word in the middle of the page, underlined twice in black.  _Slayer_. "We still don't know too much about them, Dean. You said last month that you hadn't found out anything new?"

"No, sir." Dean shook his head. Sensing an opportunity, he pressed on, "She's not really, uh, fond of the Slayer community, the way she tells it. But, I think there's a few more of 'em in town than usual for this apocalypse thing. Might be able to get more information."

"Okay. Do it." Finished with this conversation, John flipped back to his poltergeist notes. "You heading out first thing?"

The younger man drank another third of the bottle down. "If that's good with you."

"Yeah. The more we know the better." John was only paying the barest attention now. The man's brow knit as he read, and his pen skimmed along his summary of the case, occasionally dropping down to the page to cross something out or insert a quick editorial comment. "If you're planning on going to Ohio tomorrow, you'd better get some sleep."

Dean stood and drained the final remnants of his beer. "Yes, sir." He dropped the glass bottle in the trashcan on his way to the bathroom.

Afterwards, the hunter sat on the edge of his bed and kicked his boots off. Then he flopped diagonally across the lumpy mattress, socks, jeans, flannel shirt and all. He'd run out of clean clothes two days ago. One good thing about this trip – he'd be able to do his laundry for free. He didn't think Faith would object too much. At least nothing was bloodstained this time.

Ten minutes later, John Winchester glanced up from his writing and watched his son, already passed out. Unobserved, the older man's face softened. He closed his journal and crossed the room. John pulled the thin motel comforter up to Dean's shoulders, then returned to the wobbly table. He lifted the other man's laptop from its place on the other side of the table and opened a web browser page. If Dean and that Slayer were going up against some demonic cult, they had best be prepared.

 


	14. Apoca-What? pt 2

**February 13** **th** **, 2004, Cleveland, Ohio, 4:00 p.m.**

He had no idea what was appropriate to bring to a pre-apocalypse party. So Dean swung by the local Shop-Rite and picked up a few of the essentials: a box of Twinkies, couple of sixpacks, carton of eggs, giant pepperoni DiGiorno's, and banana cream pie, courtesy of Marie Callender. Grocery bags in one hand, olive green duffel in the other, he tromped up the steps to Faith's apartment and pressed the doorbell.

The door sprang open almost immediately.

"Hey . . ." The hunter trailed off as he looked at the stranger. Teenager. Blonde hair, blue eyes, glasses, somewhere in the chubby category. "Hi." He smiled, in that crooked way that always worked its magic on girls. "Faith in?"

It did the kid credit that she stared at him, unimpressed. One nail-bitten hand, covered in flecks of pale blue polish, gripped the door tighter. "Who shall I tell her is calling?"

"Lily!" hollered a faint voice from the depths of the apartment. "If that's Dean, let him in."

Lips pursed, Lily glanced back at the hunter. "I'm guessing you'd be Dean."

The man's grin widened. "Guilty."

She pulled the door open and stepped aside. "Then by all means, come in."

Dean shifted his duffel to his shoulder and tipped the brim of an imaginary cowboy hat. He ducked into the kitchen to dispose of the groceries, and the blonde followed him in. Lily's eyes narrowed with suspicion as she watched the newcomer empty his bags onto the counter. If her gaze softened a modicum upon seeing the pie, it hardened again at the beer and Hostess snacks.

"Twinkies, really?"

He took in her hostile attitude and decided to be nice and chock it up to stress. Besides, Dean couldn't blame the kid. Unshaven, he did look somewhat disreputable. "You ever try one?" he asked, extending the box towards her.

Lily eyed the Twinkies with mild regret. "I can't. Mom put me a diet," she explained.

Someone giggled in the kitchen doorway. "You're calling Robin 'Mom' now?" a new girl demanded, incredulous. "This apocalypse is really getting to you."

"Becka!" hissed the blonde.

Dean's glance flicked to the newcomer. 5'4" or so, a couple of inches shorter than the blonde. This girl had dark, curly hair, olive skin, and gray eyes. Her bell bottoms flared out beneath a faded pink Brittney Spears tee. Great. Another teenager.

"It's okay, Lily." Ah, finally. There she was. An inch-wide strip of skin showing between navy sweatpants and a ribbed black tank top, her hair restrained in a loose ponytail. "Dean knows about the Slayer stuff. He hunts monsters."

"Oh." Two pairs of eyes, one gray, one blue, fixed on the hunter, looking him up and down. Dean had been checked out by much more imposing people. Ignoring Thing 1 and Thing 2 was a piece of cake.

After the last of the groceries were secure, he turned to his host. "Faith."

"Dean." Their eyes met. "How was the drive?"

"Good." Keenly aware of their audience, he decided to play everything casual.

The Slayer wove between the teenagers and the hunter on her way to the fridge. She grabbed a carton of OJ and poured herself a tall glass. "Girls, either of you need something to drink?"

"No," the Slayerettes replied in stereo, wide-eyed.

"Dean?" Faith tilted the carton in his direction.

"Nah. You mind if I do some laundry, take a shower? The water pressure in Maryland sucked."

Faith downed the OJ in one go and refilled her glass. "Help yourself. You remember where everything is?"

"Yeah, think so. 'Scuse me, ladies."

He squeezed past Lily and Becka. As he rounded the corner into the hallway, headed for the washing machine, he heard their excited chatter, clear as a bell. Girls needed to learn to keep their voices down. Curious, Dean paused to listen.

"Faith, who is  _that_?" the second one – Becka? – wondered excitedly.

"Is that your boyfriend?" asked a skeptical Lily.

"He's Dean," Faith said by way of explanation. The refrigerator door clinked as she opened it to replace the juice.

"He's taking a shower at your apartment," Becka pointed out. "That's significant. It means stuff. Doesn't it, Lily?"

"Don't look at me. I'm missing Phantom of the Opera auditions for this."

Satisfied that he was no longer a subject of conversation, Dean raised the lid on the washer and started transferring clothes from his duffel. He could still hear the Slayerettes in the kitchen.

"Those were today?" The Slayer's voice was almost concerned. "What time?"

The teenager sounded embarrassed. "Four to five-thirty. It's really not a big deal."

"If Becka takes you to the school right now, can you still make it?"

"Uh . . . I guess so. Why?"

"Becks, run her to auditions."

"But – but Robin said – "

"Doesn't matter. Becka, take Lily back to school. Lily, blow them out of the water. Or whatever it is you do. 'Kay?"

"Faith, you – I don't know – I haven't prepared."

"Pfft. You'll be great. Now go."

Becka remained unconvinced. "And if Robin calls us?"

"Tell him you're on a special assignment from me. Deal?"

"Okay."

"Now, seriously. Get outta here."

There was a scrambling of shoes on the kitchen linoleum, a high-pitched "thank you thank you thank you!", and then the front door opened and shut loudly.

Chuckling to himself, Dean tossed the last few pairs of socks into the washing machine, added some liquid detergent, and started the first cycle. He carried his bag into the bathroom and locked the door. Just in case one of Faith's mini-me's did come back. Off went the jacket, then the shirt, his belt and the rest of his things. The hunter spun the shower dial to as hot as it would go and finished undressing. He stepped into the hot water and glanced around for Faith's shampoo. Rainforest scented. As girly products went, that wasn't too horrendous.

Someone rapped, hard, on the bathroom door.

"Yeah?" he called. Eyes closed to avoid suds, the hunter lathered his hands with Rainforest and worked it through his short hair. He dug his nails extra hard into his scalp as he went. Dean hadn't been lying earlier; the water pressure in that Baltimore motel had really blown.

"Girls are gone. I'm gonna pass out. Wake me when you finish?"

"You gonna tell me about this apocalypse of yours?"

"When you finish."

"Right."

* * *

Dean emerged from the bathroom nearly half an hour later, freshly showered and shaved. He hadn't felt this clean in almost a week. It was  _incredible_.

Barefoot, the hunter switched his laundry from washer to dryer and packed his dirty clothes into one of the plastic grocery bags. Afterwards, he hung his leather jacket from a wall hook by the front door, his boots neatly placed beneath it. They stood mostly upright, thick brown workman's gear. They'd lasted him two years, but the left boot was beginning to get a hole in the toe. If he was lucky, he could stretch them out another six months.

He knocked once on Faith's bedroom door before venturing inside. The room was dim, lit only by faded winter sunlight filtering in through the closed blinds of the window opposite. Faith lay stretched out on the middle of the double bed, facedown, a pillow over her head. Dean observed her for a long moment. No twitches. No shiverers. No whimpers. Good.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dean bounced lightly up and down. When that did not work, he called the Slayer's name. Faith responded instantly. She rolled over onto her back and shoved the pillow at him. "You look better."

"Thanks." He tossed the pillow back at her.

"How long've you been on the road this time?"

"Couple of weeks, give or take."

"Uh-huh." With a groan, Faith sat up. "That was not enough sleep. Why couldn't you have stayed in the shower longer?"

"Want me to go away?"

"No, it's okay. Thanks for coming." She shook her head like a wet dog in an attempt to wake up further. "The gang'll be back here around six-thirty or so. Should probably get up."

Dean stood anyway. "Here. I brought a frozen pizza. I can stick that in the oven. Should be another half hour or more. You go back to your nap, and I'll come get you when the food's ready. And then you're gonna tell me about this apocalypse and all the researchers invading your place. Deal?"

"Deal." Faith collapsed back onto the mattress and pulled the pillow over her face. "You're a good guy, Dean Winchester," she declared, voice muffled by the fabric.

"Didn't catch that."

With a sigh, the Slayer removed her pillow for a brief moment. "I said, you're a good guy, Dean Winchester."

In the thirty seconds it took him to think of a witty comeback, Faith had already passed out again. Shaking his head, the hunter picked up a blanket off of the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and draped it across the unconscious Slayer. She continued to sleep without disturbance.

Dean retreated to the kitchen and fired up the oven. Once the pizza was baking, he plopped down into a chair at the kitchen table and began reviewing the list of questions John wanted answered.

Faith came out of her room around the same time the pizza finished. "Couldn't sleep any longer," she explained as she took the chair opposite him. "Go ahead, Dean. Shoot. Now's a good time as any to talk shop."

Bit by bit, the story began to unfold. The Sisterhood of Jhe – not Gee, Jhe – was a demonic cult that came from an totally female race of demons. Besides having plus a zillion strength and plus a half zillion cunning, they liked to celebrate their victories by consuming the flesh of their vanquished opponents. People, demons, zombies . . . they weren't too particular. Faith and crew had defeated the Sisterhood five years previous in California, and she expected them to be similarly successful this time 'round.

The only problem was, Faith complained, partway through her third slice of pizza by this point, back in Sunnydale, they had known exactly where the entrance to the Hellmouth was, to like, the closest centimeter. This was their first Cleveland apocalypse, and the mouth of Hell here had yet to be pinned down.

"So that's what we're doing right now. According to prophecy, the moon and stars will be aligned just right at 2 a.m. Monday morning. So we have until then to stop this. Half the team's working on pinpointing the location of the Hellmouth, and the other Half's on Sisterhood-extermination duty."

The Slayer gulped down another glass of orange juice. "I'm on a break from alcohol. If I start drinking while the Scoobies are in town, I might just never stop."

"What do you mean?" Dean popped the cap off his own beer. Just because Faith was on a break didn't mean that he needed to be. "Scoobies? Like, as in the cartoon dog?"

Voice becoming even more brittle, Faith explained that it was a nickname given to Buffy's friends back in their high school days.

"Buffy. She's the one who was a Slayer before you, right?"

"Bit more complicated than that, but basically. Right."

"And is Buffy here?"

Faith's face pinched. "Nah. Buffy's in Rome with her little sister. This didn't merit big enough of a response for the Chief herself."

"All these other people flew in?"

"Yep."

"But not Buffy?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

The Slayer rose from the table and began washing her dishes in the sink, a bit more forcefully than needed. "I dunno," she answered above the noise of running water. "Buffy calls the shots. Doesn't explain herself to me."

"Okay." Dean brought his plate over the sink and waited for his turn to clean up. "You want dessert?"

Faith took the plate from his hands and started scrubbing it. "Depends."

"Got pie at the store."

"Why not? We'll be working it all off tonight, anyway."

He looked up from opening the cardboard packaging on the pie. "Oh?"

"Yep." Faith shut off the sink. She shook the excess water from the plates and then balanced them with care on a towel to dry. "We're part of the hunting down the Sisterhood squad. Hope you like demon bars."

Dean almost choked. "Demons have  _bars_?" he demanded, unable to believe his ears. "No wonder the world's going to Hell."

* * *

**February 13** **th** **2004, Cleveland, Ohio, 9:00 p.m.**

As he followed Faith's directions, taking the Impala into the seedier, more industrial part of town, Dean realized he could understand why the Slayer was so reticent about her bosses. With a few exceptions, they were a bunch of douchebags.

Well, the Professor Xavier character had been nice enough, with his insistence on shaking Dean's hand and his polite inquiries about his trip to Cleveland. Andrew was just as Dean had remembered him: nerdy and difficult to understand because he kept trying to talk like Shakespeare. The teenagers, the "Slayerettes" as Andrew jokingly called them, weren't that bad, but they were  _everywhere_  in the apartment. And they kept looking at him and then looking back at each other and giggling. It was  _weird._

Dean hung a right, using the turn as an opportunity to check on his quieter than usual passenger. She was staring straight ahead, her hands curled into loose fists in her lap. He asked about his next turn. Her reply was terse, barely half a sentence. O-kay.

If he was being honest, it was really the other two men who had come across as d-bags. The brunette with the eye-patch and the tall bald guy. They seemed nice enough, but he didn't like the way that they had watched him. Or Faith. He wanted to like the redhead – she was friendly to the point of being too friendly – but someone had mentioned that she was a witch. You couldn't trust witches. No matter how Glinda they claimed to be.

It had been a relief, an hour and a half into the powwow, when Faith had called an end to the talking and announced her intention to go do something active. She'd darted into her room, emerging with a backpack full of stakes and holy water, a sword in her hand. Just in case. Dean could definitely get behind the idea of ditching the talking head scene. Even if that meant going to a demon bar. Whatever the hell that was.

He was about to find out. Faith directed him to a parking spot behind a dilapidated three story brick building, surrounded by motorcycles and the odd junker. She carefully slid the sword beneath the bench seat, making the comment that knives would be more useful here. Then she climbed out of the car and shut the Impala door a little too hard for Dean's liking. Something about her, the thin, flat cast to her mouth, maybe, warned against complaints.

The Slayer paused, about to open the dented iron door at the back of the brick shambles. "Let me do the talking." She did not wait for a response, instead jerking the door open so hard that it rebounded off the brick wall with a loud crunch.

Dean followed her in and then froze. It was like walking into Labyrinth, only without David Bowie. The room was smoky, your standard dive with crappy lighting and a lopsided pool table, but there the resemblance to anything he knew ended.  _Creatures_ crowded the bar, leaned up against the pool table, hovered against the walls. Things with technicolor skin, horns in all shapes and sizes, bizarre folds of fat, teeth like a bear. Things that looked like a pre-schooler had gone to town with Sculpey.

On instinct, the hunter reached beneath his coat, fingers outstretched towards the handgun tucked in his waistband. Without looking, the Slayer stopped him, her small, callused hand sliding into his larger one, her fingers locking between his and pulling him a few more steps into the room.

He watched her dark head turn by degrees, her eyes flicking across the room as she swaggered up to the bar. Every gaze in the place zeroed in on the two of them. Conversations stopped. The pool game staggered to a halt. Somewhere, in the back of the room, a dropped glass shattered. The monsters parted like the Red Sea, stepping out of Faith's way. In the hush, a word started. At first a whisper, and then surging, a soft, dreadful hum: "Slayer."

"Shot o' whiskey, please," Faith said casually to the bartender, a pale, man-looking creature with loose flaps of wrinkly skin dangling from his face and large, droopy bat ears.

"S-Slayer," stuttered the creature, its hands trembling as it set a shot glass on the counter and started pouring.

"Jim." She picked up the glass and saluted him. "Actually, make that two. My friend'll take one as well." Faith downed her shot, cool as a cucumber, handed the other glass to Dean, and turned to survey the room. She pulled a piece of paper from the inside of her coat and passed it across the counter to the bartender. "Here's what I'm looking for. Sisterhood of Jhe. You seen any of 'em?"

The bartender unfolded the paper to reveal a sketch of a nasty-looking demon with fangs, pointy ears, and two parallel columns of spikes running up and down either side of its forehead. Jim glanced at the paper for five seconds and then thrust it back at the Slayer, his hands shaking.

"Never seen anything like it," he declared adamantly.

Faith tucked the paper away again. "You sure?" she asked conversationally, opening her jacket just wide enough to reveal the knife at her belt. "Or do my friend and I need to refresh your memory?"

"This trailer trash troubling you, Jim?" A burly vampire stepped up to the bar, face covered in thick, bumpy ridges, yellow fangs protruding over his bottom lip, dressed like a bad John Travolta impersonator. "Slayer," he hissed, flicking spittle everywhere.

The Slayer interposed herself between Dean and this new antagonist and placed a hand on the hunter's shoulder as he moved restlessly. She flashed the new vampire a bored look. "And you are . . .?"

"Jack the Ripper. I am more ancient than you could imagine. I watched from the shadows as the pyramids rose. I feasted on Roman blood before your Christ ever walked the earth. I was at the Crucifixion itself."

Tilting her head to the side, Faith snorted. "If I had a dollar for every vamp who claimed to be at the Crucifixion . . ." She leaned forward. "Look, Jack, I'm kind of busy right now. Unless you've seen these guys – " flashing the picture of the Jhe-demon – "get lost."

When Jack did not respond, Faith looked significantly at Dean. "Vamps." She rolled her eyes. "All talk. No game."

"You dare turn your back on me?" demanded the vampire, his voice roughening with indignation. "The Slayer, ignoring her death to consort with her latest boy toy. How fitting that your death should be so ignominious."

Faith glanced back at him, eyebrows raised. "You got something to say?"

Jack the Ripper growled. "Prepare to meet your death, Slayer."

"I really don't have time for this," Faith grumbled under her breath. She grabbed a stake out of her coat pocket and, whirling, stabbed Jack straight through his tacky greaser leather jacket.

The vampire crumbled into a cloud of dust, coating the amber liquid in Dean's shot glass with a thin, greyish film. Dean set the shot back on the counter. He suddenly felt nauseous.

"So." Faith turned to the bartender, teeth bared in a wolfish smile. "What do you got for me?"

Even with the motivational display in front of him, Jim had nothing. He mumbled something weakly about talking to Slayers being bad for business. Faith sighed in disgust. Lowering her voice, she reminded him forcefully that if she didn't find this Sisterhood in time and stop the apocalypse, there would be no more business. For anybody. But he still held firm.

"Dammit," cursed the Slayer after five minutes of tense interrogation and still no luck. "I'll be back tomorrow," she warned, moving away from the bar, her hand once again closing around Dean's own. "You'd better hope you have something for me then."

Faith led the way out of the bar, her stride never faltering. She made eye contact with every monster in the place, until one by one, they dropped their gazes. As they stepped back into the cold night, Dean heard the whisper swell again in their wake: "Slayer."

Once outside, she released his hand and strode to the shotgun door of the Impala, bouncing impatiently up and down on the balls of her feet.

"Where to next?" Dean asked. He slid the key into the ignition. Baby's dependable rumble was a comfort after the bizarreness that had been the demon bar. He was pretty sure some of those things would be finding their way into his dreams tonight. Probably singing something like "Huffalumps and Woozles" or whatever.

The Slayer shook her head briskly, a disparaging motion. "We keep looking," she replied shortly. "If they're planning on blowing Cleveland sky high, someone'll have seen 'em. We'll check the other bars."

"How many places like that are there in this town?" the hunter wondered with a sinking feeling that he wasn't going to like the answer.

"Seven."

Yep. He had been right. He didn't like the answer. "Guess we'd better move fast, then."

She leaned across the front seat and planted a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. Before he could respond, she was buckling her seat belt. "Let's go."

 


	15. Apoca-What? pt 3

**February 14** **th** **, 2004, Cleveland, Ohio, 12:15 p.m.**

To express her gratitude for him showing up a few days early, Faith had insisted that Dean take the bed when they stumbled back in from demon interrogating at around three in the morning. She also promised not to let any of the research gang wake him up. The Slayer was as good as her word. It was past noon by the time Dean finally opened his eyes and rolled out of bed, and the apartment was already saturated with White Hats. He could hear the metallic zing of knives being sharpened, the persistent giggling of the teenage Slayerettes, and the grumbling of the pirate dude. Xander or something.

He stumbled across the hall into the bathroom and immersed himself in another long shower. He had got to start stopping in Cleveland more often, if only for the water pressure. Not to mention, Faith's bed was a good five steps above the motel ones he'd been crashing on lately.

The girl in question glanced up from sharpening the stake in her lap when he entered the living room. She was at his side in moments, ushering him into the mostly deserted kitchen and offering to fix him eggs or something. Dean noticed, not for the first time, the Slayer's determination to run interference between him and the rest of Research Central. Interesting.

After jokingly assuring her that he was good to feed himself, Dean watched her disappear back into the weapons factory that the hallway had become. He poured a cup of coffee from her ancient coffee maker and sat down at the kitchen table across from the older British guy, who was nose deep in a yellowed, leather bound book.

"Giles, right?"

The older man looked startled, as if surprised by the company. "Dean, isn't it? Nice of you to join us. Faith said the two of you were working until rather late last night?"

"Yeah. Can I ask you a question?"

Giles shut his book. He had been expecting this. "Of course. What is it you want to know?"

"According to Faith, you know everything there is to know about Slayers. So I was wondering – how did the Slayer begin? And how is somebody picked to be a Slayer?"

"It's rather interesting." The Brit reached for his own mug of tea and took a preemptive sip to moisten his throat. "Somewhat dark and mildly disturbing, I grant you, but so are many legends when you look into the heart of them. The Slayer has existed for millennia. In fact, one of the oldest known prophecies is the prophecy of the Slayer."

He cleared his throat and continued, "It says, in brief, 'into every generation, there is a chosen one. One girl in all the world. She alone will wield the strength and skill to stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness; to stop the spread of their evil and the spread of their numbers. She is the Slayer.'"

Giles smiled to himself, lost down memory road. "The tradition of the Slayer has its origins in the actions of a group of tribal leaders known as the Shadow Men – in the deeps of time, if you'll believe it. They – am I boring you? I tend to get carried away."

"No, not at all." Dean forced a look of fascinated attention. "This is great stuff." He opened his own journal, a newer, less abused imitation of his father's. "You don't mind if I take some notes, do you? The group I work with, we don't have much on Slayer lore."

"Go ahead." The smile never left the older man's face, but his eyes lingered on Dean, a knowing something in his gaze. He got the impression that this guy didn't miss much. "Before we proceed any further, I have one question of my own for you, if you'll pardon my curiosity."

"Sure."

"How exactly did you and Faith meet? She was rather unclear on the details."

Dean had no idea what game Faith was playing, so he couldn't back her up. He figured it was safest to go with a version of the truth. "We ran into each other a couple times, finally got to talking, figured out we both were after monsters." He shrugged. "You know."

Giles was still observing him, measuring or probing him for something. But Dean had no idea what the hell that something was. "Indeed," the Brit said after a moment. "Well, to continue with the story, these Shadow Men used the most powerful magicks to infuse a young woman with the soul of a pure demon, granting her supernatural powers and thus creating the First Slayer."

This took a moment to sink in. The hunter's pen froze above the page. "Wait. Does that mean that  _Faith_  is part demon?"

"Oh, no," the British guy demurred. "There have been far too many generations of transference for any of the Slayers today to be considered in any way part demon, even though their powers are demonic in origin. It is a fine difference, but a meaningful one."

"Uh huh." Dean filed this away along with his list of things to maybe  _not_  tell his dad. He was suddenly grateful that he hadn't had a chance to write this down yet. "So, you're part of the Watcher's Council, right? How does that whole thing work?"

Faint frown lines appeared between Giles' eyebrows. "It's a family tradition," he explained, a hint of negative emotion – Regret? Nostalgia? Longing? – colouring his voice.

Just then, Faith stuck her head in the doorway. "Hey, G-man, aren't you supposed to be video-calling Olivia?" she asked Giles pointedly. "Since it's the big V day and all? You can use the laptop in my room, if you want."

"You're right," Giles said slowly. "If you'll excuse me, Dean?"

Dean grinned. "Go ahead. Can't leave the ladies waiting."

"Er, quite." Slightly flustered, the Watcher got to his feet and left the kitchen. Faith slid into his vacated chair, lifted his tea mug to her nose, and sniffed.

"Eugh." She pushed the mug across the table. "I don't know how he drinks that stuff. So . . . what were you guys talking about?"

"Slayers."

"Learn anything interesting?"

"A few things."

"Yeah? Like what?"

The hunter scooted his chair backwards. Its wooden legs scraped across the faded linoleum. He carried his coffee cup over to the sink and rinsed it out. "Well," Dean drawled, "I think he said that if I did this –" his wrist twitched, spraying the Slayer with water from the faucet, "you'd melt."

Faith wiped her forehead off with her sweatshirt sleeve. "Funny." She reached around him and got a palmful of water, which she then poured down the back of his neck. "Now we're even."

"Oh, no." Dean stuck both hands beneath the tap and flicked water at her. "We're just getting started."

"Truce. Truce!" The Slayer shielded her face with one arm. "Okay. You win."

With a grin, the man wiped his palms on his jeans. "Fair enough. You wanna blow this place? Grab some burgers?"

She glanced significantly towards the noisy, crowded living room. "Sounds good to me. Lemme just get my boots. Be right back."

Dean watched her disappear around the corner before turning back to the dishes in the sink. Apparently, not everyone was as conscientious about cleaning up after themselves as he was. Humming a little AC/DC under his breath, the hunter squirted some dish soap onto a pink sponge. He heard the traces of whispering just outside the kitchen and killed the faucet, the better to listen in.

"Xander!" hissed a female voice. The ginger witch. "Don't. I promised."

"Yeah, well, I didn't," the angry pirate snapped back. "And he deserves to know."

The two early twenty-somethings invaded the kitchen and then froze at the sight of Dean waiting for them, a plate covered in soap suds in his hands.

"What's up?" Dean feigned innocence.

"How well do you know Faith?" asked the pirate while the witch twisted her hands anxiously.

"What do you mean?" He set the plate back in the sink. Dean had a feeling that washing up was going to have to wait.

"Hey, I'm ready to guh – go . . ." The Slayer's voice trailed off as her eyes surveyed the group warily, darting back and forth from Dean to Xander to Willow and back to Dean again. "What's this?"

"Faith." Xander managed to make her name sound like an insult. "Willow was just telling me how you haven't been honest with your boyfriend here."

"Not my boyfriend," Faith replied automatically.

"Faith, what's going on?" Suspicion crept into Dean's voice.

"Nothing. Xander and I were just heading back to the living room." Willow wrapped an arm around Eyepatch Guy's bicep and attempted to tug him towards the doorway.

Xander ripped his arm free. "Sorry, Will. But the guy deserves to know."

"Deserves to know what?" The hunter glanced between all three of them: Xander, his features narrowed with self-righteous indignation; Willow, who had the terrified look of someone watching an oncoming train; and Faith, whose cool façade was just beginning to slip, revealing the beginnings of panic.

The pirate swallowed. "Dean. Did Faith ever tell you about when things went south in Sunnydale?"

"Yeah. You guys had to blow up the town to defeat some First Evil Dude or whatever."

Eyepatch Guy shook his head. "No. Before that. Did Faith tell you about when she went bad in Sunnydale?"

" _Xander_." The redhead pled, one last ditch attempt to get her best friend to stop.

Both men ignored her. "When Faith went bad in Sunnydale?" Dean repeated. He purposefully did not look at the Slayer.

Xander pressed full speed ahead. "Did she tell you about how she betrayed all her friends? About how she went psycho crazy and murdered  _two_  people? About how she allied herself with a monster demon and tried to destroy the world? About how she  _stole_  someone else's body and tried to kill her own?"

The world was spinning. All Dean could hear was the pirate's voice, somehow reaching him across a sea of staticky white noise. He felt sick to his stomach. It wasn't true. It simply couldn't be true. But Faith wasn't denying it.

"Faith. He tellin' the truth?" The roughness of his voice was surprising. But still, Faith didn't answer.

She was just standing there, eyes wide in silent horror, as if the ground had been pulled out from underneath her and she was falling, falling, falling. He wondered if this was how she had looked when her own knife had been thrust into her body, when her friend's fangs had ripped into her throat. She looked lost, as if her world was ending.

She met his gaze, a quiet plea for help. Or maybe it was a desperate scream. He couldn't tell. Faith stared at him for a moment, her chest rising and falling, hands clenched into fists at her sides. Then with a soft sound – a whimper, maybe – she whirled on her heel and ran for the front door, slamming it like a clap of thunder behind her.

Some of the tension fled Dean's body, but the majority remained, finding space for itself in the depths of his belly and in the sinuses around his eyes and forehead. She would return – in an hour, two hours, five hours – and he needed to be prepared when she did. He took a couple of steadying breaths.

Giles appeared before Dean could come up with a game plan, summoned by the slamming of the door. "What in the seven Hells?" The retired librarian looked at each of his former students in turn and then removed his glasses. He polished them carefully on the hem of his sweater and grumbled, more to himself than to them, "Bloody idiot. You leave the bloody children alone and look what bloody happens."

He replaced his glasses on his nose with a sigh. "Right. Here's what's going to happen. Willow, Xander, you take the younger girls to Robin's place. Practice fighting, go back through the lore, I don't  _give_  a damn, just go."

Even the angry Eyepatch Guy looked a little chagrinned in the face of disappointed Giles. This time, he allowed the witch to drag him out into the hallway. Giles waited for them to round up the teenagers and leave before seating himself at the kitchen table and turning back to Dean.

"I am sure you have quite a lot of questions, Mr. Winchester. Please, sit down. I shall try to answer them to the best of my ability."

Dean took the opposite chair warily. "I don't trust you," he warned.

The Brit sighed. "Understandable. I'll keep this brief, then, shall I? I met Faith Lehane in the fall of '98. She was seventeen, and she had just fled Boston to escape the vampire Kakistos . . ."

* * *

Faith hadn't wanted to go back. At first she ran, covering six miles in the first hour, headed for the Greyhound station. When she arrived there, however, she realized that she had left her phone and her wallet back at the apartment. And she couldn't leave, not when there was an apocalypse on the horizon. Not when leaving meant proving Xander and Robin and everyone else right.

So she wandered, finding the nearest play park, collapsing onto a swing, glaring at any kids who dared approach. Faith sat there and swung back and forth until her fingers turned scarlet and numb from the cold. She had also forgotten her coat. Stuffing her hands into her jeans pockets, the Slayer walked slowly home. She thought about stopping in at a few bars along the way, flirting or tricking her way into a beer or two.

Ultimately, though, Faith knew that this time, there was no delay or escape. Dawdle as much as she liked, eventually she would have to go back home and face the music. Explain herself. Tell secrets she wasn't ready to tell to a man whose reaction was probably going to be just shy of nuclear.

Dammit all to Hell. If she ever got her hands on that Xander Harris . . .

The door was unlocked when she finally came home, the clock in the entryway just dinging five o'clock. Dean was waiting, as she had known he would be, sitting in her darkened kitchen, his revolver gleaming on the table in front of him.

Faith stepped in to meet her firing squad. "Hi."

His hand closed around the stock of gun, lifting it off the table. He gestured at the seat across from him. "Sit."

She sat and avoided his gaze. "Where's the rest of the gang?"

"Giles cleared them out. You and I need to have a talk."

"You talked to Giles?" A beat of silence. "Huh. Guess he told you everything?"

"He did. And then I made some phone calls of my own."

"L.A.P.D.?"

"And the prison in Stockton. Eddie says hi, by the way."

"Oh." Faith smiled briefly at the mention of her once-favorite security guard. "He say anything nice about me?"

Dean ignored this. "Quite the rap sheet you've got, Faith."

"I've changed."

"Don't know about that. Seems like you're still not coming clean."

"I'm an open book." She was finding it more and more difficult to look away from the gun. "Ask away."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Faith exhaled, huffing loudly. "Because I didn't want this to happen."

The hunter waved this aside with his handgun. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

"When I was ready."

He was trying not to get angry, but this sidestepping of hers was not helping. "And when was that going to be?"

"When I knew you better. When I figured out how to say it without running you off. 'Hi, my name's Faith, and I used to kill people.' Doesn't exactly inspire confidence."

"You're dangerous, Faith."

"So are you, Dean. Let's get that straight right outta the gate. Any hunter, any Slayer, if they're any good at all, they're gonna be dangerous. They  _have_  to be."

She looked down at her hands. "I'm not . . . I'm not saying that what I did was okay. G-d knows I've done things . . . things I wish I could take back or make right. But I can't. I know that I'll spend my life trying to fix this, and it'll still be broken."

Her gaze lifted, and it brimmed with fire. Faith stood and issued her challenge. "So. You wanna shoot me, Dean? Put me down like some rabid dog? I won't stop you."

She opened her arms as if welcoming an embrace and presented her body as a target. The Slayer allowed him a few moments to decide. Dean's index finger brushed the trigger and then jerked away, hesitant.

"Right." She turned her back on him in disappointment. "Well, this's been a party. Look, I have an apocalypse to deal with and a city to save. Right now I don't trust you to have my six, and you don't trust me, either, so, if you're not gonna shoot, just go."

Decision made, Dean got to his feet and tucked his Colt back into the waistband of his jeans. "I wish you had told me earli–" he started, but Faith cut him off.

"I think we've said everything important, don't you? Drive safe, Dean," she added in a caustic twist on their usual goodbye. Without giving him a chance to reply, the Slayer strode out of the kitchen. She shut and locked her bedroom door firmly behind her and then waited for the noise she knew would come: the front door banging shut and the muffled roar of the Impala driving away.

Once the noise of the Chevy's engine faded, Faith left her room. Dreamlike, she walked through the apartment, noting the clutter and half-finished stakes abandoned in the Slayerettes' abrupt departure. She slid the three deadbolts home on the front door, each quiet click the final death knell to something that had been unique, special, hers. Faith sank onto the welcome mat, her back against the door, knees pulled to her chest. Only then did she let herself cry.

 


	16. Rift

**From: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **To: ZepHead_79** **  
** **Date: February 16, 2004 at 11:30 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: Survived**

Well, we made it. Sisterhood of Jhe defeated once again. Giles and I were talking earlier about how we've got to find whatever dimension those things come from and board it up. They're not that fun to fight, and they leave half-eaten corpses everywhere. Kinda gross.

The others are all out for the saving-the-world-party. I'm gonna meet up with them later. Wanted to send this first.

Dean, about how things went down, I'm sor–

_MESSAGE NOT SENT_

_**. . . .** _

**From: ZepHead_79** **  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **Date: February 18, 2004 at 9:00 a.m.** **  
** **Subject: Congrats**

Haven't heard any crazy rain-of-frog stories from Ohio, so I'm guessing you guys stopped the apocalypse. Good one.

I won't be telling anyone about what happened in California. Your secrets are safe with me.

Hope you didn't get hurt in the boss match. Call me?

_MESSAGE NOT SENT_

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79** **  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **Date: February 28, 2004 at 10:00 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: Nebraska**

Took out a vampire tonight. One of your kind. Bastard tried jumping out at me. Still had one of your stakes in my jacket. Fanged dude was dust in the wind in seconds.

Thanks for

_MESSAGE NOT SENT_

_. . . ._

**From: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **To: ZepHead_79** **  
** **Date: March 1, 2004 at 12:30 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: GED**

Guess who's now the proud owner of an official GED certificate? Yup, that would be me. G-d, sometimes don't you just look at the people around you and wonder where the Hell your life went wrong?

I dialed the first half of your number the other day. Couldn't go through with it. I'm never gonna hear from you again, am I?

_MESSAGE NOT SENT_

_. . . ._

**From: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **To: ZepHead_79** **  
** **Date: March 17, 2004 at 11:40 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: Blurggghhh**

Dean . . . rhymes with green. It's Saint Patty's Day. Did you know that? I'm Irishlk;. Did you know thaat? I think I'm Irish . . . Ma was never too sure. My dad ran out when I was five . . . did you know that? I don't know what he was . . . maybe he wasn't even human. Nah . . . only humans can be that big of douche bags.

I mish you. Do you mish me?

Sh-t.

_MESSAGE NOT SENT_

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **To: ZepHead_79** **  
** **Date: March 19, 2004 at 10:15 a.m.** **  
** **Subject: Sh-tty Decision Making**

I went home with a stranger last night. Turns out he was trying to set up a magic spell to summon a demon or something. Thought my blood'd sweeten the pot. Idiot left a six-shot Smith and Wesson lying out in the open.

Don't worry. I didn't kill him. Just shot him in the kneecaps and called the cops. Guess who had a record for engaging in Satanic rituals? (Not me. In case you got confused.)

Do you and your dad ever practice magic?

_MESSAGE NOT SENT_

_. . . ._

**From: ZepHead_79** **  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **Date: March 19, 2004 at 1:00 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: South of the Border**

Crossed over into Juarez the other day. Picked you up a little something – stone horse, found it in a market – I was looking for information about a supposed chupacabra sighting. Got this onyx horse instead.

Don't know why I bought it. Not like I'll be seeing you anytime soon. You'd probably throw it at my head if I  _did_  give the thing to you. Don't know that I'd blame you. Can't seem to toss it, though. It's been riding around in my glovebox, covered in bubble wrap.

What the hell is wrong with me?

_MESSAGE NOT SENT_

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79** **  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **Date: March 30, 2004 at 8:00 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: Enough**

Dad found the horse. He keeps referring to you as my girlfriend and laughing about it. Guess it could be worse . . . if he started asking questions, I don't think I could lie to him, not if he asked what happened. I don't want to lie to him.

Who'd've thought, a stupid stone horse could cause so much trouble? It's not even cursed or anything.

Dad wants me to mail you the horse before it gets broken. I told him I'd forgotten your address. I haven't.

_MESSAGE NOT SENT_

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **To: ZepHead_79** **  
** **Date: April 1, 2004 at 10:30 a.m.** **  
** **Subject: I Forgive You!**

April Fool's.

_MESSAGE NOT SENT_

_. . . ._

**From: ZepHead_79** **  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **Date: April 5, 2004 at 7:30 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: Smokey**

That's the name of your horse, by the way. I think you'd like him. Did I tell you that the onyx is all grey and swirly?

Oh, right. I haven't told you anything.

_MESSAGE NOT SENT_

_. . . ._

**From: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **To: ZepHead_79** **  
** **Date: April 13, 2004 at 10:00 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: Curtains**

If Robin says one more thing about a "self-pity" party, I'm gonna stake him, human or not. But he might have a point. I don't know why I keep writing you, but these stupid emails stop now.

_MESSAGE NOT SENT_

_. . . ._

**From: ZepHead_79** **  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **Date: April 14, 2004 at 8:00 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: How Long**

. . . until we talk to each other? I don't even know who's responsible for calling who at this point. It's been two freaking months, Faith.

Got into a tussle with a pissed-off spirit last night. Thought about you. Thought about that look on your face when Pirate Guy started spilling your secrets.

I see it now. Why you wanted to keep your crap to yourself. It shouldn't have gone down like that. I'm sorry I didn't react the way you wanted me to.

I'm sorry, Faith. Can we just go get drunk and pretend this never happened?

_MESSAGE NOT SENT_

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **To: ZepHead_79** **  
** **Date: May 21, 2004 at 7:30 a.m.** **  
** **Subject: Need You**

Sitting in the Cleveland airport. About to fly out to L.A. Remember how I mentioned that vampire friend of mine, Angel? Turns out he tangled with the wrong lawyers . . . they nearly destroyed the city. And my friend Wes? I never told you about him. Not sure you'd've liked him. Not sure how much I liked him.

Anyway, he's dead. Executed by some jumped-up sorcerer. The sorcerer's taken care of –Angel did have some juice on his side - but now I have to fly out for the funeral.

I . . . I don't know what to do. I'm sitting here at this airport gate, and my damn hands are shaking. Wes was . . . well, he was a lot of things. We didn't always get along. But now he's gone, and there's this hole. There's so much that we were gonna fix, we were gonna make it all better. And now, there's never gonna be a better. Time's run out.

I want to call you. Want to hear your voice, jump in that car of yours, tell this stupid world to go screw itself. Wes didn't deserve to die like that. He deserved so much more.

I guess that's what happens when you sign up to fight the good fight: you get dead.

_MESSAGE NOT SENT_

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79** **  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **Date: May 25, 2004 at 8:00 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: Truce?**

My dad won't let up. He figured out that I hadn't talked to you in months. I skimmed over the details, but he's still pissed. "A Slayer is too useful an ally to throw away. I don't care what you have to do. Get back on her good side."

So . . . I guess this is my apology?

_MESSAGE NOT SENT_

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79** **  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **Date: May 25, 2004 at 8:10 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: Hey**

Hey. Just wanted to say I'm sorry about how things went down in February. Wish it hadn't've ended that way. Hope you're doing okay. Call me sometime?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **To: ZepHead_79** **  
** **Date: May 25, 2004 at 9:00 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: RE: Hey**

Hey. It's okay. I'm okay. You okay?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79** **  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **Date: May 25, 2004 at 9:30 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Hey**

Yeah, I'm okay.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **To: ZepHead_79** **  
** **Date: May 25, 2004 at 9:45 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: Ok, Then**

Good to know. What B-movie horror are you facing down this week?

**. . . .**

**From: ZepHead_79** **  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **Date: May 25, 2004 at 9:50 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: Suburbia**

And it sucks. We got a call about a demon possession . . . but I'm pretty sure this kid just hates their stepmom.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **To: ZepHead_79** **  
** **Date: May 25, 2004 at 9:55 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: RE: Suburbia**

Cinderella, much?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79** **  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **Date: May 25, 2004 at 10:05 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: Close**

Cinderella meets the Exorcist.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **To: ZepHead_79** **  
** **Date: May 25, 2004 at 10:12 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: RE: Close**

Expulsive body fluids?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5** **  
** **To: ZepHead_79** **  
** **Date: May 25, 2004 at 10:15 p.m.** **  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Close**

Like you wouldn't believe . . .

. . . .

 


	17. Hiss and Vinegar, pt 1

**June 15** **th** **, 2004, Cleveland, Ohio,**

"Hello?" Faith answered the cell phone with trepidation. It had been roughly four months, give or take, since the Valentine's debacle, and sometimes talking to the hunter was still incredibly awkward. Currently, they both seemed to be holding to the not-mentioning-the-past school of thought, but she knew better than to expect that to last. The fact that this phone call was coming in at nine a.m. didn't do much to assuage her fears.

"Hey. You awake?" His voice was oddly muffled.

"Yeah. Just got back from a run. Whatcha eating?" The Slayer opened her own refrigerator and withdrew a half-gallon of milk to go with her Frosted Flakes. It was a Tony the Tiger kind of morning.

"Breakfast sandwich from Biggerson's. Bacon, sausage, cheese – all the good stuff. You ever go there?"

Faith fumbled with the top of the unopened cereal box and then dumped a quarter of its contents into a giant soup bowl. "Not yet, but the Brat Pack keep trying to talk me into it."

"Brat Pack?"

"The Babysitters' Club."

"Your mini-Me's?"

"More like the mini-Buffy's . . . Never seen that much nail polish in my life – and I was in women's prison for three years."

Dean choked on his sandwich.

"Uh . . . too soon?"

He coughed violently. "Too soon."

"My bad." She took a large, crunching bite of her Frosted Flakes. "So . . . what's up?"

"Hunting a Vetala in Worthington. Wondered if I could get a research assist?"

"Worthington, huh? That's what, two hours south of here? Want me to come down?"

"Nah. Pretty sure I can handle it. These things aren't so bad, s'long as they don't get the drop on you. They travel alone, they have paralyzing venom, and their eyes go all snakey before they strike."

A short pause while he swallowed. "Vetalas leave the same kinda body trail as your type of vamps – so I thought your lot might have some more on them than the average hunter."

She felt something – relief? Disappointment? Faith wasn't sure. "It's detention day for the Mickey Mouse Club, so I'll put 'em to work, see what we can find out. I've never heard of a Vetala, but I'm not exactly book-girl. There's probably something in one of the Watcher's journals."

"Thanks. Hey, when I wrap this up, might swing through Cleveland . . ."

"Yeah." Suddenly, Faith was done. "Good luck. I'll let you know what I dig up."

She flipped the phone shut before the hunter could reply and stared morosely at her now-soggy breakfast. The months of radio silence had been frustrating, irritating, and at times, unnervingly lonely. Some days, though, she wondered if wherever they were at now wasn't worse.

* * *

"What are we looking for again?" Becka wondered, sprawled across Faith's living room carpet. Propped up on her elbows, she had been glancing through  _The Complete Demonologist's Bestiary_ ,  _17_ _th_ _Edition_  for the past half-hour. "My eyes are going to be permanently crossed."

"Vetala," Faith replied shortly from her perch on the couch. She had long ago given up on a simple trip to SearchTheWeb and was hunting through a more obscure demon database – one of Wesley's old favorites.

"And what are those again?" Lily asked innocently. She sat on the carpet, her back against the edge of the coffee table, the  _Compendium of Important Events in the History of the Council of Watchers, yrs. 1500-1950,_ open in her lap.

"Eyes like a snake, bites like a vamp," the older woman replied in a monotone. "That's about all I can find so far."

"So can't we just assume that they die like a vamp?"

Becka glanced up from the  _Bestiary_. "What, a stake to the heart?"

Lily shrugged. "I dunno. Beheading seems to solve a lot of things."

"Can't take anything for granted. Sometimes you need a particular metal or . . . or something." Faith clicked the trackpad on her laptop several times in violent succession. "Wait . . . I found a reference. Do I have Paracelsus's  _Toxicology for the Occult Initiate_  lying around?"

"Beats me."

"Okay. I'll be right back. Don't you two slack off while I'm gone."

"Aye-aye, Captain Faith." Lily saluted exaggeratedly.

"Your wish is our command," Becka seconded.

Faith suppressed the urge to make a rude hand gesture. Robin had threatened her repeatedly about cleaning up her act in front of the underaged minors. She was . . . working on it. Slowly, but she was working on it.

Setting her laptop on the couch, the Slayer hurried into her room and dug through the cedar chest at the foot of her bed. A copy of her first Watcher's  _Vampyr_  text, a rubbermaid tub filled with a dozen different knives, books on werewolves and hell dimensions and  _Witchcraft for Dummies_ , but nothing on Parcelsus or Toxicology. Dammit. She hadn't wanted to do this, but seeing as how there was no alternative . . .

With a sigh, the woman turned to contemplate the two giant cardboard boxes stacked against her bedroom walls, unopened. They had arrived two weeks ago, but Faith had not yet been able to steel herself to open them. She eyed the packing label on the closest box grimly, its red postmaster's stamp bearing the legend "Los Angeles."

"'M not ready for this," she muttered under her breath. Faith reached into the cedar chest and grabbed the first knife in sight, a switchblade. She slit the packing tape on the top of each box and forced the cardboard open to reveal stacks of books. Old, leather-bound books, their mahogany spines layered with cracks. Newer books, wrapped in stained, faded green fabric.

And, lying at the very top of one of the boxes, a black ledger with silver-edged pages. Recognition sinking in, Faith lifted this one out and opened it. Her eyes skimmed the first entry.

_January 15, 1999_

_I have just received news of my first field assignment. I am commanded to wrap up my affairs in London and prepare to move to California in America, where I shall be charged with Watching the Slayer Faith Lehane. Gossip at the Council has it that her previous Watchers have been less than superb. I anticipate improving upon this and making great progress with this young Slayer. As such, I have deemed it proper to begin my own Watcher Chronicles._

_. . . ._

Gulping, Faith rifled through the pages until she reached the halfway point.

_May 5, 2000_

_Faith has turned herself in and is currently in the city lock-up awaiting sentencing. I should feel something – failure, fury, regret – but I cannot summon up the emotion. I am drained by this girl, this almost-murderer of mine. Angel believes she can be saved. As for myself, I wonder if prison will provide her life with the stability that has eluded it thus far. Or will it simply be the final step on her path beyond redemption?_

. . . .

Driven to see how it all ended, the Slayer closed the ledger and reopened it to the last page. The final entry. The last . . . no. She couldn't think about that.

_May 18, 2004_

_I have finished attending to Illyria and now, finally, have time to write. There are two outcomes to tomorrow: we succeed beyond all hope or prediction, or we die. I'm not sure I much care either way. Spent a few moments reviewing this book, all that I have written or accomplished. As a Watcher's history, it is not much. But then, what have I done as a Watcher?_

_I have Watched as my Slayer became a psychopath, as my lover was murdered by a vampire, as my - as Fred was destroyed by Illyria. I have Watched my friends die, one by one, or else turn their backs on me. I have failed my family, my duty, my calling, and my friends at every turn._

_Regardless of how this ends, I do not think I will survive. I am tired. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, idealistic buffoon, is no longer. I am not sure that I liked him, much. I do not like what has taken his place either._

_. . . ._

The line ended there. Faith closed the book a final time and shoved it under her bed, where no one would see it. She needed a moment to breathe after that one. If Wes had met a Vetala, she would have heard about it on the grapevine. No one needed to look through his Watcher's Diary for this case. She took a few deep, shuddering breaths, then called out, "Girls! A little help in here."

Eager for an excuse to abandon their current projects, Becka and Lily were instantly at her side.

"Whoah!" the blond exclaimed, seeing the three foot high crates of books. "Where'd you get all those?"

"A friend left 'em to me. Can you girls unpack all those, sort through them, see if there's anything by Paracelsus?"

"Sure. Don't you want to do it? See what your friend left you?"

"Nah, Beck. I'm just gonna go back to surfin' the net. I think I was getting somewhere with that."

Faith retreated back to her laptop and her couch, to her research gloriously dissociated from painful reminders. She could take overly gory, badly described accounts of psuedo-monsters. Hell, she could probably even battle her way through a horrid 17th century translation of Paracelsus at the moment. But she could not unpack those books, Wesley's final legacy, the closing chapter on their uncomfortable relationship.

The cardboard monstrosities had been sitting in her bedroom for over a week now, slowly accumulating dust while Faith dealt with her issues. She didn't want to open them. Couldn't open them. It was irrational, but unpacking the boxes would change things. It would make it official. Wesley would be truly dead. It would be truly over. Faith was not ready to face that.

And so she hid out on her sofa, scrolling through useless webpage after useless webpage and googling every possible misspelling of 'Vetala' that she could concoct. She managed to successfully distract herself for the next hour, until a squeal from the bedroom demanded her attention.

"I found it! I found it!" Lily came barreling into the hallway so fast that her socks slid on the carpet and she almost faceplanted. Becka followed her out more sedately, a large red tome in her arms. "You were right, Faith! You were right! It  _was_  in Paracelsus."

Straightaway, the Slayer closed her laptop. "You found it? The Vetala? What does it say?" she asked, impatient.

Becka passed her the book, her finger marking the specific page. "Here. Three paragraphs down."

"Where? I don't . . . oh. Thanks." Faith brought  _Toxicology for the Occult Initiate_  closer to her face and peered at the spot Becka indicated. She had to squint to make sense of the florid type. The Slayer mouthed the words as she read, nodding to herself as the brief description matched what she already knew. Snake-eyes, teeth, venom, vulnerable to silver knife, traveled in pairs . . . wait, pairs? "Oh, sh-t. Oh, sh-t, sh-t, sh-t."

The book was on the floor and Faith's phone was in her hand, dialing out, before she even realized she was cursing in front of the teenagers again. Becka and Lily were gaping at her, mouths open, eyes wide. Screw it. Screw Robin and his stupid rules. "Pick up. Pick up, pick up. Come on, Dean!"

"You've reached Dean. Leave a message, and I'll call you back."

"Damn, damn, damn, damn." Faith punched the numbers in again.

"You've reached Dean. Leave a message, and I'll call you back."

"Come on, Dean. Answer the damn phone," she snarled, dialing a second number.

"This's Dean Winchester's other phone. Leave a message, and I'll call you back."

"What's going o–"

"Shh!" Lily tugged on Becka's arm to quieten her. "It's that guy. The hunter guy. The one from the apocalypse, remember?"

"Ohh…"

Faith tapped in a third number. "Dean, I swear, if you don't pick up."

"This is Dean Winchester's other other phone. You should not have this number. Leave a message."

"Right." The Slayer stood and picked Paracelsus up off the floor. She tossed it at Becka, who caught the book with a whoof of exhaled air as it hit her in the stomach. "Grab your bags. Detention just got turned into a field trip." Faith hurdled over the couch and darted into her room. She began filling her black backpack with a variety of weapons – knives, stakes, holy water, and a machete.

"Either of you packing silver bullets?" she hollered towards the living room.

"No?" came the confused response.

"Great." On second thought, Faith reached back into the depths of the chest and dug out the Smith and Wesson she'd taken off that creeper a few months prior. There had to be a box of silver bullets in here somewhere. Robin had helped her make some for the revolver after that rabid werewolf showed up during the kids' finals week. Finally, her fingers closed around the small leather pouch of bullets. She added revolver and bullets to her backpack and zipped it shut. She slung the bag over her left shoulder and snatched up her wallet from its place on the desk.

"Either of you know how to track a cell phone?" She stepped back into the hallway. The two Slayerettes waited by the front door, their backpacks in their hands. Becka still clutched Paracelsus. Good. They weren't finished with that bastard yet.

"N-no," Lily stammered, looking away from the Slayer. Huh. Apparently she must have her Slay-now-ask-questions-never face on or something.

"You'll learn fast." The Slayer shooed her charges out the door and locked it behind them. "Lily, you sit shotgun. You're gonna help me locate that phone. Becka, I want you to read everything Paracelsus's got on the Vetala. Deal?"

"Where are we going?" Becka asked nervously as she buckled her seat belt.

Faith turned the key in the ignition. "Worthington."

"Isn't that two hours away? Won't we be too late?"

The Slayer flashed Becka a grim smile in the rearview mirror. "Better buckle up tight."

* * *

It was the worst car ride of Becka's sixteen-year-old life, including that time she went with George Parker to his senior prom and he got pulled over for drunk driving on the way home. The way Faith handled the car was  _insane_. There was no other possible description for it. She barreled down I-71, knuckles bone white where they curved over the the steering wheel. Her Intrepid flew past everyone else on the road, doing ninety an hour, minimum. And if anyone blocked her path? They'd better be prepared for suicidal tail-gating and a barrage of extended middle fingers.

After her third time flipping someone off on Faith's behalf, Becka had to admit that it did relieve some tension. But definitely nowhere near enough. Every minute in this car was shaving a month off her life. By the time they finally got to Worthington, she'd probably be lucky if she lived to forty-five.

Trying to read a bad Enlightenment translation of a German text was nastily difficult under the best of conditions. Under the present ones, it was like tap-dancing while fighting off a pack of werewolves and coughing up frogs. Something like that. Thankfully, there wasn't much in the book about Vetala beyond what they'd already read.

Lily's job was even worse. The blonde had to call various phone services, trying to get a location on cell phone number 7-8-5-5-5-5-2-5-7-5, all the while covering the mouthpiece every time Faith burst into another profane tirade. On the plus side – if it could be considered a plus side – Becka was fairly sure that she had learned at least fifteen new words today, even if she wasn't entirely sure what half of them meant and knew she should never say any of them in front of her parents.

Funny. She had skipped Slayer trainage one time for her mom's fortieth birthday party. Becka was sure that the other five Slayers could handle it without her, no big. Only, she had forgotten to get permission from Robin. Next thing she knew, she was in the doghouse, assigned to spend two days of her precious free time cleaning the arsenal at Faith's apartment. And then somehow that got turned into this crazed rescue mission with her best friend and her Slayer mentor, who was currently doing a fantastic impression of a Grade A maniac.

For the first time since becoming a Slayer, Becka was starting to understand why those dark whispers about Faith always carried an undercurrent of fear with them. The woman was straight up  _nuts_. Just take her driving. Sure, this Dean Winchester guy was in danger. But that didn't explain why she was firing off half-cocked and acting like a huge "bitca" about it. What made this guy so special to her, anyway?

"One more turn here," Lily announced in a shaking voice, and they were careening left onto Schrock Road.

"How much farther?" A command instead of a question.

"Two miles?"

"Mmm. Either of you have silver on you?"

"I don't think so."

"Becka, there should be a few silver knives in my bag. Get yourself and Lily one. I'll take the Smith and Wesson."

"Paracelsus specifically says knives . . . do you really think bullets will work?"

"Turn right at the next stop sign."

Faith twisted the wheel savagely, and the Dodge hurdled around the corner. "I don't have time for stop signs. I dunno if bullets'll kill it. Maybe. But they'll sure hurt like hell and slow it down. How much farther?"

"Looks like we're getting really close. I think you make a left at the next drive."

The Slayer slammed on the brakes to make the driveway. She slowed the car to a creeping five miles per hour and turned left. The long gravel drive ended in front of an abandoned house and a dilapidated barn, its wooden sides peeling faded red paint. Faith pulled off the gravel into a thick patch of bushes and killed the engine. "Bag," she ordered.

Becka obediently passed the backpack forward.

"Good." The older woman reached into the bag and loaded her revolver, holding the spare silver bullets in her teeth as she worked them one by one into the cylinder. Faith opened her car door and climbed out. After checking that the safety was on, she tucked the weapon into the back of her jeans. She grabbed two silver knives with six inch blades from the backpack and slid them into either side of her belt.

"You ready?"

Their own knives in hand, the girls nodded.

Faith paused for a moment, seeing the fear on their faces. "We'll try the barn first," she explained. "If these things feed on blood, they probably get a little messy. Some monsters get discriminatory about mess in their houses. I'll take the front door to the barn, you two go around to the back.  _Stick_ together, you hear me? Look out for each other. Don't get hurt. Okay?"

Lily and Becka nodded again.

"Okay. Let's go."

The Slayers moved forward as one. The younger girls held their knives in their right hands, glancing about nervously as they approached the barn. Faith met their eyes one last time before they wove around to the left side of the tumble-down building, moving in that loose, natural gait that came with the Slayer heritage. They had never done a daytime mission before. Huh. Perhaps she should have thought about that. Whatever.

Shaking her head of all distracting thoughts, Faith unsheathed the knife at her right hip. Knife in her left hand, gun in her right, she stalked towards the scrap iron twin doors at the front of the barn. If the Slayerettes moved with a predatory grace, hers was something else entirely. The Slayer shifted into a crouch when she reached the doors, dropping down to peer through the slight gap beneath them. She spent a moment, hardly breathing, to look and to listen. And then it was go time.

Faith stood abruptly. She glanced at the door's hinges – they opened outwards. So, kicking the door down would be more trouble than it was worth. Her fingers closed around the door handle and gave it a gentle tug. The door moved with her. Ah. Overconfident sons of b-tches hadn't even bothered locking up behind them. Well, in that case . . . she'd just have to be dramatic another way.

She gripped the handles on both doors, took a deep breath, and threw them open. Faith stepped into the almost empty barn, her revolver raised to chest height. Her eyes swept the room, focusing on the key details and throwing the rest away. Three bodies slumped over near the far end – drifters, judging by the tattered looks of their clothes. Another body, that of a woman in her early twenties, lay facedown not ten feet from where Faith stood. A silver knife protruded from between her shoulder blades.

And there – fifteen feet past that – was what she had come for. Dean Winchester, blood streaked across his face, bound to a wooden chair, his eyes closed. For a second, Faith froze. But then one of his legs twitched, and she could breathe again.

Some tramp, all dark hair piled on top of her head with four inch stiletto heels strapped to her feet, was straddling the hunter, her mouth buried against the side of his neck. She looked up, startled, when the doors crashed open, and hissed, baring reddened fangs. Her blue eyes flashed as she saw the Slayer, and her vertical pupils widened. Sure enough, snake eyes.

Confirmation received, Faith didn't give the Vetala any more time to respond. Stepping forward into the barn, she flicked the safety off her revolver with one hand and fired three shots into the creature's chest. The impact was enough to knock the monster off her feet, and she shrieked as she hit the ground, a horrible high-pitched scream.

"Save it." She was across the dirt floor now, and then her knife was burying itself to the hilt in the Vetala's chest. The thin silver blade slipped in between ribs, piercing through muscle and tendon as if they were butter. Faith jerked the knife out. Scarlet blood dripped from the tip onto the Vetala's blue blouse. The monster gasped, her arms and legs spasming, her mouth open in sharp-edged 'O' of horror.

The Slayer pinned her down at the shoulder with one knee and stabbed the silver knife down into the Vetala again and again until at last her shuddering stopped and her eyes went dark. Faith carelessly wiped her blade on the monster's blouse and got to her feet. She had more important things to take care of.

Half-afraid of what she might discover, she ran to the hunter's side. He was even worse up close. Faith forced her mind to clear as she started dealing with things, one at a time. She yanked her tee shirt over her head, folding it into a ragged square, and then pressed it against the gaping, paired holes in Dean's neck, oozing dark blood. With the knife in her other hand, she sawed through the ropes at his ankles and wrists.

After tucking the knife back into her belt, her fingers felt for the carotid pulse on the unbitten side of his neck, pressing gently against his windpipe. What should have been firm and bounding was weak and thready. Faith could barely feel anything at all.

"Hey." She shook his shoulder. "Dean. Wake up. It's Faith."

One eye drooped open, and the hunter whispered something nonsensical.

Faith shook him harder. "Dean. How many times did they bite you? It's important."

He looked up at her this time, his gaze unfocused. His normally green eyes were all black, over-dilated pupils. "Five?" he mumbled. "Got the first one, but then the second one surprised me."

The Slayer glanced over him with a practiced eye. Other than his blood-soaked shirt and the Vetala bite, she couldn't see signs of further trauma. "Anything broken?"

"Don't think so."

"Can you stand?"

"World's spinning."

"Great." Faith lifted the hunter's own hand and placed it against the makeshift bandage on his neck. "Can you hold this? I'm gonna go get help."

Dean's hand was limp in hers. It nearly fell down to his side when she took a step back. "Not Dad."

"No, not your dad. Some of my lot."

"'S okay, then."

"Like that would stop me if it wasn't," Faith muttered to herself. "I'll be right back," she promised, louder.

She sprinted to the doors of the barn and whistled piercingly into the sunny afternoon. Seconds later, Becka and Lily came running out from behind the abandoned building. Their faces paled when they saw Faith's bloodstained tank top and the knife in her hand.

"We couldn't find a way in at the back," Becka confessed shamefacedly. "And then we heard the shots . . . and we got scared."

"It's all right." It wasn't all right, but Faith would deal with that another day. "I got it handled."

"Is he . . . ?"

"Dean's alive. Lost a lotta blood, though. We gotta get him to a hospital damn fast." She handed the car keys to Lily. "Here. Go get the Dodge. Fast as you can."

"Shouldn't we call an ambulance?"

"And explain what we're doing here with a pile of corpses? Hell, no. Get the car. Becka, you're with me. Help me get him up."

Faith did not wait to see if the girls were obeying. She had already turned and was running back to Dean. His hand had slid from the bandage in the time she was gone. Cursing softly, she adjusted the t-shirt's position and applied more pressure.

"How can I help?" Becka looked sickened at the sight of the massacre in the barn. Made sense. Very few of their usual dancing partners bled red. They'd explode into dust on you, or leak something green and acidic, but there was nothing quite like seeing a passel of human-shaped things covered in their own blood.

The older Slayer didn't dwell on it for more than a moment. "We need to get him outside." One hand still covering the bandage on his neck, she slipped her other arm beneath Dean's left shoulder. Becka did the same on the other side. "On the count of three. One, two, three!"

Together, they shifted the hunter to his feet. Dean moaned in pain.

"Easy. I got you. Just don't conk out on me."

He moaned again.

"Dammit, Dean. Okay. Come on, Becka. Let's get the hell outta here."

Half carrying, half dragging, they managed to get the nearly unconscious man out to the front of the barn, just as Lily pulled up in the car. They carefully maneuvered Dean into the backseat, and then Faith climbed in after him. She wrapped one arm around the hunter's chest while maintaining pressure on the now blood-soaked T-shirt with her other hand.

Becka, the more adventurous driver of the two teenagers, got in behind the wheel while Lily started figuring out directions to the nearest hospital. She'd had a cousin who lived in Worthington, three years or so, she informed the rest of the car. Faith was not impressed.

"I don't care how the hell you find one, but find a damn hospital, and get us there. Now." She turned her attention back to the wounded man leaning against her, his head on her shoulder. Becka pealed out of the gravel driveway, following Lily's quiet directions into town.

"You still with me?" Faith's voice dropped a few decibels and mellowed a hair.

Blinking open heavy eyelids, he mumbled something in response.

"What was that?"

"Now . . ." a pause while the hunter took in a shallow breath and made a feeble gesture towards his neck, "now, we match."

"We match? Oh." Faith made the connection. "Yeah, Dean, we match."

"Thanks," he gasped, his eyes flickering closed again. "Knew you'd . . ." Dean's voiced trailed off.

"Dean?" She shook him slightly. When he did not respond, she shook his shoulders more forcefully. "Dean? Stay with me." Dean still did not respond, and his eyes remained closed.

Faith leaned into the front seat, her tone frigid. "I don't care how fast you're driving. Drive faster."

"But –"

" _Drive. Faster_."

 


	18. Hiss and Vinegar, pt 2

**June 15th, 2004, Worthington, Ohio**

It wasn't that bad, Faith kept reminding herself. It couldn't be that bad. Sure, he'd had almost a gallon of blood guzzled out, but people survived from that, no problem. Soon as they got him to the hospital, got a couple bags of fluids and good ol' red stuff in him, he'd start perking up. Faith's mild panic intensified when she remembered that she did not actually know the hunter's blood type. Oh, well. That's what O positive was for, right?

"Is he going to be okay?" came the tentative question from the driver's seat.

When she responded, it was with much more calm than she felt. "Think so. It's probably just a bad reaction to the Ventala venom and the blood loss. I'm gonna call the hospital, tell 'em we're coming."

Keeping firm pressure on the injured man's neck wound, the Slayer opened her phone and dialed 911. The soothing voice of an operator answered after a mere two rings.

"Worthington 911. What is the exact location of your emergency?"

Faith adopted her Cordelia Chase voice, pitching everything half an octave up. If you could trust Law & Order, emergency response calls were recorded. She didn't need her voice on anyone's database.

"My friend was attacked by an animal. He's bleeding really badly. We managed to get him in the car, and we're driving as fast as we can." She glanced out the window at a road sign, "Right now we're at exit 23 on 270 East. Can you give me directions to the nearest hospital?"

"Ma'am, are you in a safe location?"

"Yes, I'm in a car. Where's the nearest hospital?"

"That would be Mount Carmel St. Ann's in Westerville. Take exit 27, turn left onto Cleveland Avenue, and the hospital will be about a mile down. I'll let their emergency department know you're on your way."

"Thanks." The Slayer dropped the phone into her lap and passed the instructions on to Becka. Now that she had directions and the beginnings of a plan, her panic receded.

"Will they believe you?" Lily asked quietly. She had halfway turned in her seat, unable to face forward, as if worried that the hunter would die if she looked away.

"I'll be convincing."

As their exit approached, Becka maneuvered the Intrepid into the right lane. "What's your story?"

"Wha –"

"My brother's best friend got in a car accident last year. For the first few hours or so, they wouldn't let anyone back in the emergency room to see him except for his family."

"So I'll say I'm his sister. We don't look  _that_  unlike."

"Uh-huh." The teenager pulled off the highway, braking smoothly to make the left turn. "No one's gonna buy that when he wakes up. Tell her, Lily."

Lily had the decency to blush with embarrassment. "People don't look at their brothers the way you two look at each other, Faith."

"What?"

"What Lily means is that you two are constantly having eye-sexy times or checking one another out when you think no one's looking. At least, that's how you were in February. How far down Cleveland is the hospital?"

For the first time, Faith was grateful that Dean was too out of it to be paying attention or remember this moment. "A mile," she replied automatically as her free hand reached for Dean's wrist and found his pulse. Like the carotid, it was far too weak. Faith did not have a watch to time it, but the feeble beating felt fast against her fingertips. She cast her thoughts back to that twenty-fours in February that had ended in flames.

"I mean," Becka continued while they were trapped at a red light, "you two practically ooze UST."

"What?"

"Unresolved sexual tension."

The older Slayer snorted, her inner braggart asserting itself before she could pull it back.. "Oh. That's been resolved."

"Oh! So you two are . . ."

"Are nothing, Lily. It's complicated. Sometimes adults . . . never mind. Ask your parents."

Finally, there it was, the turn-in to the hospital. Becka recklessly torqued the steering wheel to one side, and the Intrepid shot across the road, not fifty yards from a line of oncoming traffic. Swerving around speed bumps, she followed the signs for the Emergency Room drop-off. The car jerked to a halt in front of two empty ambulances and a set of giant double doors. Two burly hospital orderlies and a pair of equally burly paramedics approached them as Lily jumped out of the car and rushed to open the back door.

"Wild animal attack?"

"That's us." Lily leaned into the back seat and wrapped one arm around Dean's waist. With her pulling and Faith on his other side, they managed to scootch the wounded man out of the car.

The paramedics stepped in as soon as they realized what she was doing. "We can take it from here, ma'am." One of them took her place, and his partner moved to replace Faith. Together, they lifted Dean onto a gurney and strapped him down. The straps were unnecessary; Dean lay on the gurney, still and pale.

While they did this, an orderly was asking Faith in quiet tones what had happened. She explained again that it had been a wild animal, giving the barest of accounts but emphasizing that her boyfriend had lost a lot of blood.

All the straps buckled, the paramedics started moving the gurney into the hospital. Faith followed behind them into a large white hallway. "Trauma, Room One," announced a female voice over the loudspeaker. "Trauma, Room One." People in navy and gray scrubs were running down the hallway towards them. They all seemed to blur into one. Faith was vaguely aware of stethoscopes around their necks, plastic ID badges clipped into places of prominence on their breast pockets.

"Airway?" One of the scrubs demanded, unfurling her stethoscope as the paramedics wheeled the gurney into a large, square room where even more people in scrubs were waiting. Trauma Room One.

"Breathing shallowly on his own." The paramedics parked the gurney next to a hospital bed in the center of the room, its rails down. Three of the scrubs swarmed the bed and gurney. Two grabbed the corners of the sheet beneath Dean's shoulders and ankles. The other ran around to the head of the gurney and stabilized the hunter's head and neck with his forearms.

"One, two, three!" counted the older paramedic. On three, the five moved in concert and transferred the injured man to the hospital bed. The gurney was whisked away instantly, and the scrubs converged on their new patient.

"Somebody get me a bag mask," called the head scrub, a middle-aged woman with a salt-and-pepper bun, a long white coat over her gray scrubs.

Seconds later, someone was fitting a plastic mask with an air bag attached to it to the patient's face and began compressing the bag at regular intervals. Other people were pulling Dean's boots and outer shirt off and using weirdly-shaped scissors to cut off his jeans and t-shirt, leaving him in a pair of black boxers. Faith opened her mouth to protest, but the words died in her throat. She shifted towards the back of the room, terrified someone would notice her and kick her out.

As soon as the man was undressed, he was rushed by a second onslaught of scrubs, who fixed a thick black blood pressure cuff to one arm and stuck a grey plastic clip on the same index finger. A blonde woman in blue scrubs was tying a blue elastic tourniquet around the other arm, in preparation for inserting an IV line. While she did this, the lady doctor was opening Dean's eyes and calling out to him to get his attention.

"Blood pressure's ninety over sixty, oxygen satting at eighty-nine percent!" announced one of the scrubs as the numbers came up, flashing on the monitor above the patient's bed.

The lady doctor glanced up from her examination. "Heart rate?"

"Pushing one-fifty!"

"What's the story on this one again?"

One of the paramedics stepped forward. "Animal attack. Girlfriend says they were camping, left some food out overnight, she went off into the woods to use the bathroom, came back and he was surrounded by a pack of dogs, and one of 'em had gotten to his throat."

"Mmm." The doctor removed the T-shirt at Dean's neck to reveal the Vetala's mark and the rusty dried blood surrounding it. "Any other defensive wounds?"

"None reported."

"What's this?" Her fingers closed on the black cord around Dean's neck. It frustrated her. "Why is this still on?"

"Couldn't figure out how to unclasp it," a subordinate scrub explained hastily. "Want me to cut it?"

"No!" The word spilled out before Faith could stop herself. Suddenly, everyone in the trauma room was staring at her. They seemed surprised and shocked by her presence. "Don't cut it."

"Ma'am, you can't be in here." The older paramedic was instantly at her side, catching Faith by the elbow and tugging her towards the hallway. "The girlfriend," he mouthed, when he thought she could not see him. "Come along, Miss. Your boyfriend's in good hands."

Out in the hallway, he released her arm. "I'm sorry, Miss, but you'll have to stay in the waiting room. They'll send someone to get you as soon as he's stable."

"But – I have to be there," Faith insisted. She feinted left and dodged right to get around the paramedic, but the hallway was fairly narrow, and he caught her by the shoulders before she could go three feet. Fail one for the Slayer.

"I'm sorry, Miss. Really, I am, but you'll have to wait. I'll make sure somebody comes back to talk to you as soon as they know anything."

Faith hesitated, torn between pushing her way past him and following protocol. She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet in an attempt to peer back into the trauma room. Her body was screaming that this was not all right, not okay, that she needed to be in there, have Dean in her line of sight, make sure he was still breathing.

At last, desire not to be thrown out of the hospital by security won out. Faith collapsed back down onto her heels and shrank visibly as the fight left her. "He's lost a lot of blood," she half-sobbed hysterically. Maybe if she over-played this, they'd take her seriously. "See?" The Slayer held up her hands, palms up, liberally splattered with dried blood. "Please. I'm not a doctor, but I think he needs a transfusion or something. Please."

"I'll make sure the doctor knows," the paramedic replied placatingly. "Now, if you'll just come with me, I can show you to the waiting room."

Dread welled up in the pit of her stomach, but Faith allowed the paramedic to lead her to the waiting room anyway. On a balmy Tuesday afternoon, it was mostly deserted, with only a few patients sitting on the plastic chairs. An older woman in jeans and a letterman jacket sat with her arms wrapped around her stomach to guard against pain. A pair of frazzled-looking thirty-somethings hovered on either side of their ten-year-old, a skinny blond boy in a soccer uniform. The mother held a small trash can in her hands – a vomit bucket.

In the most deserted corner, Lily and Becka were seated side by side, passing hastily scribbled notes on a legal pad back and forth. They stood up when they saw Faith, matching looks of worry on their faces.

Lily spoke first. "Is he okay?"

Faith dropped into the empty chair next to the blond. "I dunno. They'd just started when I got kicked out. I told them that he was kinda blood-deprived, but I don't think they listened."

"They're doctors," Lily attempted to soothe. "I'm sure they can take care of him."

The Slayer muttered something horrendously profane. "I doubt that."

Eager to turn the conversation away from this current topic, Becka blurted, "Faith. Is there anything we can do to help? Do you want us to go get you anything? Or, or, we could sit here and wait with you . . . if, if you want."

"Can I see that paper?"

Wordlessly, Lily passed over their notepad and a pen. The older Slayer made a short list of necessary items, marking each one with a forceful bullet point: two toothbrushes, toothpaste, a hairbrush, a pack of disposable razors, some cheap shaving cream. She added a few more notes and handed the legal pad back to Becka.

"Can you get those for me?"

The Slayerettes leaned in together to read the list. "Are you . . . are we planning on staying the night?" Becka wondered.

Faith nodded. "I am, anyway. Something that bad, they're not gonna let him leave until tomorrow probably. If that. I'm gonna stay with him. You girls can get a motel or drive home."

"What does this mean? Find the Impala?"

"Oh, right." Faith lowered her voice. "That's what I really want you to do. Find Dean's car. It's a 1967 black Chevy Impala. You remember it?"

Lily scrunched up her nose. "Vaguely?"

"License plate's KAZ 2Y5. I dunno where it is, but given that Dean was hunting, it's probably somewhere in Worthington – wherever he was before the Vetala jumped him. In case it's somewhere incriminating, we need to find it before anyone else does. Here." The Slayer dangled a ring of silver keys from her hand. "Got these out of his pocket while we were still in the car. So . . . who wants to drive the muscle car?"

Becka took the keys. "My brother's best friend has a '65 Mustang."

"Uh huh." Faith shook away the sinking feeling that she might have to have a talk with this brother's best friend one of these days. "Good. Find the car, then bring it here. Then, and only then, do I want you to make the supply run. Understood?"

"Got it." Lily reached beneath her seat and produced Faith's black backpack. "Thought you might want this."

"Thanks. Now go find that car."

"On it." Still looking at her concernedly, the two teenagers hurried out to the parking lot.

Once they had disappeared from view, Faith sank a good six inches further into her uncomfortable plastic chair. How long had it been? Not even ten minutes since they'd forced her out of the trauma room. It would probably be another half hour or longer before they remembered her existence.

_He's tough,_  she reminded herself.  _He'll pull through. Buffy did, that time she let Angel go to town on her._

But expecting anyone to heal like a Vampire Slayer was setting them up for failure. You couldn't make that comparison. Faith picked up one of the tabloid magazines that infested every hospital waiting room and flipped it open. It was nearly impossible to concentrate. She didn't care about celebrity gossip – never had, really – and fashion gossip was even more banal than the usual stuff.

After five minutes' good effort, she gave it up and tossed the magazine back down into the chair next to her. Instead, she watched the sluggish movement in the waiting room itself. The woman with stomach pain was now standing against the far wall, looking out the window and making a call on her cell phone. The ten-year-old soccer player had lost his scrimmage with nausea and was vomiting noisily. Faith accidentally made eye contact with his father. The man immediately looked away, embarrassed.

_Or maybe I just look that awful_. Faith became conscious of the blood on her arms, the streaks of dirt and monster goop on her jeans. She suddenly realized that she had a terrible need to pee. It had been more than four hours since her last trip to the bathroom. In all the panic, fighting, and more panic, she hadn't been paying the least attention to her bladder.

_It'll be okay_   _if I go_.  _It'll take two minutes. They won't come looking for me in two minutes_.

Still, gripped by fear, the Slayer stepped to the triage nurse's desk and explained her cover story, adding that she would be in the ladies' in case anyone came to speak with her. The man nodded understandingly and pointed her to the nearest restroom.

Her overstretched bladder relieved, Faith faced herself in the bathroom mirror. G-d, did she look awful. In the heat of the fight, her mascara had practically melted down her cheeks. She had met raccoons with less black around their eyes. Soaking a paper towel in cold water, Faith tried to clean the make-up off her face. It didn't really help, but she felt better for trying.

When she exited the bathroom, she hurried back to the triage nurse and asked if there were any updates on her boyfriend. The nurse shook his head sympathetically. He promised to let her know as soon as he heard anything, so Faith retreated back to her corner. She sat cross-legged on her same plastic chair and began running through the day's events in her mind, wondering how she could have done things better.

If she had opened Wesley's books when they showed up then she would have had the Paracelsus on hand, and they wouldn't have wasted nearly three hours looking through the other books. Maybe she could have made it to Worthington in time to warn Dean, stop him from getting bitten in the first place.

She would have to report on this to Robin or Giles, sooner or later. A Slayer's first encounter with a Vetala? That was the type of thing that had to be included in the Watcher's journals. Which brought her full circle back to Wesley.

An hour of miserable self-criticism and worry passed before one of the scrub people from the trauma room came looking for her. It was the subordinate scrub who hadn't cut Dean's necklace, a lanky redhead with a prominent Adam's apple.

"Hi. You're Dean Winchester's girlfriend, right?"

"Yes," Faith replied sullenly. For once, Dean had had his actual ID in his wallet, and so she had given them his real name. She wondered now if that had been a mistake. The Slayer extended her hand grudgingly. "I'm Faith."

The scrub had a firm grip. "Jimmy. I'm an intern here at St. Ann's. Why don't we step somewhere more private so I can update you on Mr. Winchester's condition?"

She followed him numbly back down another white hallway until they came to a nurse's station, brimming with women in blue scrubs. The station was surrounded by a pod of a dozen or so patient rooms, most of which had lights on and curtains drawn.

"Is he okay?" The Slayer did not even have to play the panicking girlfriend. The more the resident kid didn't speak, the more she panicked.

"Your boyfriend's doing fine. His body went into shock from losing so much blood. That's why he passed out and wouldn't wake up for you. We gave him a couple liters of fluid and are currently giving him a bag of blood while we wait for test results to come back. He's just started coming around. Would you like to sit with him?"

"Yeah."

"He's right here, in room seven." The intern crossed the pod to the curtain with a large black number 'seven' on the wall above it. He knocked on the plaster next to the curtain twice and then brushed it aside to enter.

The hunter was lying on another hospital bed, this one with its rails up, and the head of the bed propped up thirty degrees or so. The nursing staff had placed a large, white surgical bandage on his neck, covering the Vetala bite. A half-empty bag of blood hung from an IV pole on the left side of the bed, tubing connecting it with Dean's arm.

Someone had dressed him in a faded blue and white hospital gown and pulled a white terrycloth blanket up to his armpits. The blood pressure cuff and one of those plastic finger clips were still attached on his right arm and left forefinger respectively. His eyes were still closed, his eyelids pale and nearly translucent in the emergency room lighting. Somebody had wiped the blood spatters off his face, for which Faith was grateful. Dean seemed to be breathing easier now, but there was clear plastic tubing draped over his ears with narrow prongs that projected into his nose.

_A nasal cannula_ , came the memory from Faith's own hospital experience.

"You said he was awake?" She didn't mean for the question to sound accusatory.

Luckily, Jimmy the intern took it all in stride. "He will be soon. Recovering after going into hypovolemic shock can be quite the process."

"Hypo . . .?"

"It means his blood volume was low."

"Oh. Thanks." Faith lifted a bag containing Dean's ruined clothing, boots, and other effects from the single chair in the room and dragged the chair closer to the bed.

Jimmy understood the cue to leave. "If you need anything, just ask for me at the nurse's station," he said cheerfully and slipped out, closing the curtain behind him.

"Alone at last." The Slayer dropped into the chair and then scooted it even closer to the bed. On impulse, she took the hunter's hand. It was cold and still in hers, which felt weird. She tightened her grip and began rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. "Gotta get your blood flowing again," she commented quietly to the room at large.

"There's . . . better . . . ways . . . to do that."

Faith nearly jumped. G-d, she must tired. Slayers did not startle this easily. Heart thudding in her chest, she looked up to see Dean observing her, his gaze still somewhat out of focus.

The hunter chuckled weakly. "Surprise. I lived . . . Don't," he added when the Slayer moved to retract her hand. He squeezed her fingers. "Feels nice . . . warm."

She didn't say anything in response, watching him with hooded eyes, waiting for the shoe to drop. "How are you feeling?" she asked after a long, awkward pause.

"Like sh-t." He managed a faint smile.

Returning the smile in spite of herself, she nodded. "Sounds about right."

Dean looked away to the side. "This room's freaking cold," he complained petulantly.

"Want me to go get you another blanket?" The Slayer released his hand and half-rose from her chair.

"Nah." He shook his head. "'S'ok. How'd you find me?"

Feeling slightly more at ease, she sat back down. "Your phone's got a satellite tracking thing in it. One of my mini-Me's called your phone company, pretending to be your panicked little sister. . . They gave up your info pretty fast."

"What happened at the end there? With the Vetala? Kinda missed that part."

Faith grinned, a wolfish smile with far too many teeth involved. "I took care of it."

"Mmm." Dean attempted to return the smile, but the best he could manage was a grimace. He winced as pain shot through his neck. "You come alone?"

"Brought a couple of the Slayerettes. They're out looking for your car right now. I gave 'em your keys." Faith dropped this last piece of information and waited for the volcano to blow.

That got Dean's attention. The hunter sat bolt upright in the hospital bed, ignoring the jarring tug on his IV. "You're letting those cheerleaders drive my car?" he demanded, incredulous.

She shrugged. "Why not? Couldn't just leave it somewhere incriminating. Where is it, by the way?"

"Biggerson's. I'd just finished lunch when they jumped me. If  _anything_  happens to my baby, if there's so much as a hint of a scratch on her, I'm gonna . . . I'm gonna . . ."

"Got it." The Slayer paused, a small part of her enjoying his histrionics. "I'm pretty sure they have their licenses," she mused, sounding uncertain.

Dean groaned in agony. "Why didn't you go with them, then?"

"I got a rule about hospitals: no one wakes up alone." Faith stood and waved her phone in one hand jauntily. "But . . . since you're all Chatty Cathy, I'd better go call the cheerleaders, see if they've totaled anything yet."

"When I get out of here, I'm so gonna end you."

Her hand on the curtain, the Slayer laughed. "In your dreams, Dean-o. In your dreams."


	19. Hiss and Vinegar, pt 3

**June 15th, 2004, Westerville, Ohio,**

As hospital trips went, this one wasn't so bad. For starters, he was awake and nothing was broken. No casts, no awful tubes shoved down his throat . . . it was a solid improvement over his last ER visit. Plus, his babysitter this time was a lot hotter than a twelve-year-old Sammy, all squirming and anxious in a chair by the door. Dean would have taken twelve-year-old Sammy over a scantily clad Slayer in a heartbeat, but, since he had no say in the matter, he might as well enjoy the view.

Not that the Slayer seemed bent on entertaining him. After stepping out to call her minions, she collapsed back into the visitor's chair, content to lean her head against the wall and take a cat nap. He appreciated the silence. Even after all those months, Dean wasn't quite sure what to say. He'd made up his mind back in Cleveland not to go after her, not to exact justice (vengeance) for a wrong that wasn't his to right. He had wanted things to go back to normal – whatever that was for them – but now that they were trapped in a tiny room with no reprieve in sight, he was forced to admit how far from normal they were.

Thankfully, the wacky pack combo of whatever the Vetala had put in his system and the hospital's painkillers was enough to take the edge off of the anxiety. Dean wriggled down further in the hospital bed. He moved carefully to avoid snagging the IV on one of the bed rails. He had done that earlier, when Faith decided to make jokes about his car, and it had hurt like a bitch.

Dean looked over one last time at the Slayer to make sure she was actually asleep. A tendril of brown hair clung to her half open mouth. Her arms were folded across her stomach, just beneath her breasts, and her legs stretched out, Doc Martens resting on the bottom rail of the bed, one ankle crossed over the other. In sleep, the fierceness and suspicion eased out of her face. For a moment, it wasn't awkward.

Satisfied, the hunter tugged his blanket a little higher. He could deal with the rest of it when his brain felt less fuzzy. The unorthodox drug cocktail was so effective that, as soon as Dean closed his eyes, he fell back into dreamland.

* * *

It felt like moments, but according to the clock on the wall was over an hour later when some ginger kid came into the room, tapped Dean on the shoulder, and introduced himself as Jimmy, the intern. Dean had only seen a couple of episodes of  _Dr. Sexy, M.D.,_ but he was pretty sure that intern meant Jimmy was a doctor in training. The guy seemed like he knew what was going on, though.

Faith came to life the instant the intern walked in through the curtain, suddenly becoming much friendlier and asking questions about Dean's medical care. He couldn't make heads or tails of it – the drugs making him stupid, again – until Jimmy, addressing Dean, referred to her as "your boyfriend" and mentioned the "animal attack." Then it all clicked into place with the familiarity of the magazine sliding into his .45. He forced himself to pay attention.

"Well, good news, Mr. Winchester. Your blood tests came back normal, but we'd like to keep for for observation overnight. You've had a rather eventful day – scared a lot of people, especially your girlfriend here. She was quite the trooper."

Dean smirked to himself as Faith shifted minutely in her chair. Quite the trooper, huh? He was going to enjoy not letting that one fade.

"We found a bed for you upstairs on the medical floor, and you're clear to be moved, as soon as this transfusion is completed." Jimmy indicated the almost empty bag on the IV pole. "Do you have any questions for me?"

"Yeah. Can I get a sandwich or something?"

"Sure thing. Can I get you anything, ma'am?"

_Ma'am?_  This was getting better by the minute.

"No thanks." Faith shook her head. "I'm good."

"Okay. I'll be right back with that sandwich."

True to his word, Jimmy did come right back. "Sorry, we're all out of sandwiches," he explained, still friendly and cheerful. "We do have some pudding, though. These okay?" The intern set a stack of three plastic pudding cups and a disposable spoon on the counter within easy reach.

Dean's eyes widened. "Pudding's great."

"Good. The nurse'll be along in a little while to check on your IV and finish up the transfusion. Should have you moved upstairs within the hour. Okay?"

"Yep. Thanks again, Jimmy," Faith smiled. Dean didn't think the intern would see how patently false it was, but . . .

"You suck at lying," he commented in an undertone as the curtain swished closed again.

The Slayer raised an eyebrow sardonically. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Hand me that pudding?"

"Sure."

"Thanks." Dean pulled the top off the first pudding cup – chocolate, beautiful chocolate – and began spooning it into his mouth. "Thith ith delithuth." He inhaled the pudding in barely thirty seconds and opened the next one. "Where're the cherleaders? Shouldn't they have been back by now?"

Faith shrugged noncommittally. "I had 'em run a few errands for me while they're out. They should be here pretty soon – they've got to drive back to Cleveland tonight. Parents," she added at his quizzical look.

"You going back with 'em?" He masked his interest by tossing the two empty puddings into the trashcan.

The Slayer matched his unconcern with equal casualness. "Hadn't decided."

Dean realized with an unusual flash of insight that if he didn't fix this awkward thing now, it was never going to go away. "Stay," he said, finishing off the final pudding. "They'll probably let me out sooner with somebody to drive me home."

"Ha. Like you'd let me drive your car."

"You'd be better than those cheerleaders."

"I'm flattered." The phone in her pocket started buzzing. "Ah. Speak of the teenage devils. I'd better go find them before they get themselves lost."

"Slayers with a bad sense of direction? Isn't that a recipe for disaster or something?"

"They're sixteen, Dean. That, like, guarantees they'll have a bad sense of direction."

"I didn't." The words had a ring of finality to them. "Did you?"

Faith's phone buzzed again. "No," she admitted grudgingly. "I didn't. I gotta go. Be back quicker'n you can say 'Vetala.'"

"Vetala," Dean called to her retreating back. In response, she flipped him off over her shoulder.

* * *

When she returned five minutes later, it was with two high school kids in tow. They looked vaguely familiar, but he was glad when they introduced themselves. The kids were nice enough – the brunette one handed him his keys right off the bat – and, even better, they had brought dinner: a large brown bag full of Big Macs and those mini apple turnovers that were almost as good as pie.

The blonde, Lily, carried a couple of bulging Walmart bags in one hand. She handed these to Faith, who emptied them rather quickly into her backpack.

"Think we got everything on your list," Becka said in a cheerful tone. She leaned one hip against the counter with a sink and ripped open the packaging on her cheeseburger. "Chevy's parked in the lot just across from the ambulance bay. My mom's been texting me for the past hour, wondering when I'm gonna be home. What time do you want to head back, Faith?"

Dean paused partway through his second apple turnover, a streak of golden gelatinous pie filling occupying the corner of his mouth. He licked his lips to corral the recalcitrant dessert, curious about Faith's response.

"I'm gonna stay," she replied after a second's delay. "Just in case there's any trouble. Heard something the other day about a vampire problem out this way – think I'll take the night and check it out. You girls ok driving back to Cleveland?"

Lily felt in the McDonald's bag and pulled out the final apple turnover. "No prob, Bob." She popped the turnover into her mouth, oblivious to the dirty look being shot her way from the hospital bed. "Well, Becka, you ready?"

"My mom's gonna blow a gasket if I don't get home before nine, so, yeah." The brunette crumpled her Big Mac wrapper into a tiny ball and pitched it into the trashcan. She grabbed another hamburger and tucked it under her arm. "Glad you're okay, Dean."

"Yeah. Hope you get to feeling better," Lily added as she followed the other teenager out the curtain.

"Vamp problem, huh?"

Faith unwrapped her own sandwich. "Whaaaa?" she asked through a mouthful of half-chewed protein. She swallowed. "You look hard enough, there's a vamp problem in most towns."

Substitute the word 'vamp' for 'monster,' and Dean couldn't argue with that. They finished the remainder of the burgers in silence.

Before the tension could build up again and become awkward, the nurse, a business-like brunette with firm hands and a french tip manicure, came in and introduced herself as Audrey. She disconnected the empty blood bag from Dean's IV port and replaced it with a bag of saline. Next, Audrey slid a disposable cover over the digital thermometer tip and asked her patient to close his mouth around it. After glancing up at the monitor over the bed, she recorded his vitals signs. The thermometer beeped softly, signaling that it had finished with its measurements.

"Good news, Mr. Winchester. Your blood pressure is back up to normal. Transport should be here in the next five minutes."

As quickly as she had entered, Audrey left. Dean felt rather disappointed – she hadn't even tried to flirt with him. It was probably the hospital gown. Not even the Marlboro Man could look manly and mysterious in a hospital gown. The half-dressed Slayer in his room didn't help, either.

"Where's your shirt?" The words came out a little more peevish than he'd intended, but luckily Faith didn't seem to be offended.

"It got ruined in the fight."

"Oh." Dean vacillated between dropping the subject or pursuing it. While he was making up his mind, someone knocked on the wall outside the room.

"Transport!"

The Slayer lifted her backpack up to her left shoulder and picked up the bag containing Dean's ruined clothes with her other hand. "Well, looks like we're moving up in the world."

"Looks like."

* * *

Being wheeled through a hospital wearing nothing more than his boxers, a gown, and a blanket was definitely not one of Dean's favorite experiences. He was so glad Sammy wasn't here to see this. He would have had a field day teasing his older brother about this for ages.

The hunter was relieved when they finally turned into an empty room on the third floor and the transport personnel closed the door behind them before helping him transition into the new hospital bed. Dean insisted that he could walk by himself. His legs were fine, nothing wrong with 'em, but the orderlies paid him no mind. One of them stabilized each of his elbows, and they shifted him from the wheelchair to his new bed with minimal exertion.

It was a slight consolation that Faith simply ignored this moment of indignity, occupied as she was with scoping out the room. Luckily, it was a private, with a television mounted from the ceiling, a shabby reclining armchair in one corner, and its own bathroom, complete with handicapped shower and toilet. The Slayer's face lit up like Christmas when she saw the shower.

As soon as the orderlies exited, she set up camp, unzipping her backpack and withdrawing some of the Slayerettes' Walmart haul. She pushed the over-bed table within Dean's reach and started cluttering it up with items: the TV remote, a jumbo-sized back of peanut M&M's, an unopened deck of cards, and a paperback children's fantasy novel, still bearing an $8.99 sticker.

"Harry Potter?"

"It was either that or Fabio. According to Lily, small town Walmart isn't Barnes freaking Nobles. I'm gonna clean up. You need anything?"

"Do you know where my phone went? It was in my pocket when – "

"Lemme check." Faith dug in the ER's effects bag until she found his cut up jeans. Rummaging in the pockets, her fingers closed around a chunk of hard plastic. "Got it." She tossed the phone across the room.

He caught it one-handed. "Thanks."

"Mmhmm." The Slayer grabbed the strap at the top of her bag and carried it into the bathroom with her. Dean waited for the water to start running before he opened his phone and looked for missed calls. There weren't any, which made sense. He wasn't due to check in with his dad until ten that night. He scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering over the central button when he reached a certain number. On impulse, Dean clicked his thumb down.

The phone rang and rang and rang. He counted each sound, fingers crossed that this time, someone would pick up. After the tenth ring, he got an automated female voice, informing him that "We're sorry, but the number you are trying to call has a voicemail box that is full. Please call again later."

As with every time he called Sam and Sam did not answer, it was difficult to justify away the feeling of rejection and betrayal. Sam was busy, Dean reminded himself. It was barely pushing four in the afternoon out in Stanford. He was probably working or studying. He'd call back later.

But Sam never did call back later. Not on his own birthday, not on Dean's, not on Christmas, or the Fourth of July, or the anniversary of Mom's death. Somewhere in the last two years, Dean had lost count of the number of drunken voicemails that went unreturned. He'd tried to stop leaving them. These days, the hunter had to be drunk off his ass before calling his little brother. Or, he supposed, hopped up on pain killers and snake venom.

Someone rapped on the door, a sharp, efficient sound. "Mr. Winchester?" called a female voice.

"Come in." Dean dropped the phone into his lap.

A blonde woman in her mid-twenties entered. Her thin waist and ample upper curves were evident in spite of her loose blue scrubs. "Hi, I'm Michelle, your evening nurse. I'm just going to check on your bandage here." She brushed against him as her slender fingers went to the gauze on his neck. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Dean was glad to have finally gotten rid of the pulse oxygen thing on his hand; he could feel his heartbeat accelerating as the nurse leaned over the bed to remove the tape around the gauze. The hunter vaguely remembered the version of Faith's cover story he'd heard from Jimmy. "Pitbull." He dropped his voice a little, letting it become deeper, grittier.

"This might hurt," warned Michelle when she started peeling the tape back.

The hunter brandished one of his best smiles, the confident, sexy, commanding one. "Go for it."

In the five minutes it took for Michelle to take off the bandage, dab the wound with some antiseptics, and tape on a new swathe of gauze, Dean managed to keep her laughing almost continually. He winked, he joked, he flirted. She responded in equal measure. The bandage replaced, Michelle left, saying she'd be back in an hour or so to check on his saline drip.

Still grinning, the man watched her go. It felt good. Even in a hospital johnny gown, he hadn't lost his touch. He was Dean freakin' Winchester, irresistible to all and sundry. Well, almost all. The cell phone lay still by his right knee, accusatory in its silence.

Faith stepped out of the en suite, clad in the finest haute couture Walmart could provide: a new pair of fifteen dollar jeans and a plain grey v-neck. She bent over to towel her hair dry, providing an unparalleled view of her cleavage. Dean didn't bother pretending not to look. "You get her number yet?"

"Got the whole night ahead of me."

Chuckling, the Slayer twisted her long hair up into a bun, which she secured with two hair elastics. "You guys are all the same, aren't you?" she observed. Faith rifled through the contents of her back pack, fingers dancing over the edges of weapons as she hunted for a stake. She could have sworn she'd tossed a couple of them in there this morning. Aha! There they were.

Tucking a stake into the side of each of her doc martens, she continued, "I mean, deep down, it's all Catholic schoolgirls and playing doctor, isn't it? You've all got like the same basic kinks." She reached back into the bag for a silver knife and a flask of holy water, which she deposited in her belt and her back pocket, respectively. "So you're the playing doctor type, huh?"

His gaze following her movements, Dean shrugged. "I don't discriminate."

"Uh huh." Faith transferred her cell phone and wallet from her old jeans into the new. "You need anything while I'm out?"

"You're actually going out . . . patrolling? Can you do something for me?"

"And the brownie points for the use of correct Slayer terminology go to the man with the monster bite." Her smirk removed the sting of her words. "Whaddya need?"

"Can you go back and clean up the Vetala mess? Don't want their victims rising up as vengeful spirits."

"Got it."

She was halfway to the door when Dean spoke again. "You forgetting something?" He dangled the Impala keys from his thumb and forefinger.

Faith blinked, confused. "I was going to walk."

The hunter snorted at the ridiculousness of this idea. "And be out the whole night? I'm not gonna survive that long without entertainment."

"You have the television. And the nurse. You'll be fine. I don't want to take your car."

"Don't be stupid. Take the car. I've got a room at the Econo Lodge on Wilson Bridge. Need you to clear my stuff out of there, bring it all over here. I want to get out of this damn dress." Dean plucked at the neckline of his hospital gown with his free hand.

The Slayer knew when to admit defeat. "Okay." She held out her hand, and Dean dropped the keys into them. "Thanks."

"Go stake something."

"Heh. I'll try."

Her fingers had closed around the door knob when Dean startled her, once again.

"Oh, and one more thing . . . "

"Yeah?"

Dean held up the pack of cards and grinned. "When you get back, we're playing strip poker."

 


	20. Hiss and Vinegar, pt 4

**June 16** **th** **, 2004 Westerville, Ohio.**

By the time Faith returned from emptying out Dean's motel room and exploring Walnut Grove and Otterbein cemeteries, it was already one in the morning. She'd gotten caught loading Dean's two duffels – one full of clothes, the other salt, holy water, knives, and two handguns – into the old Chevy by the motel manager, and he had been instantly suspicious. Or maybe just cranky. Either way, he wasted nearly twenty minutes of her time griping about unreliable guests and making her pay double for the room, since it had originally been checked out to a single occupant.

Once she managed to escape the old guy, she drove back to the Vetala's hideout, a box of rock salt and a can of lighter fluid sitting prominently on the bench seat next to her. The scene was untouched, exactly as she had left it. Faith took a shovel out of the Impala's trunk and dug two separate graves in the barn's dirt floor.

Dripping with sweat, she moved the three victims into the larger of the graves. The Slayer paused long enough to retrieve Dean's silver knife out of the back of one of the snake women before dragging the monsters to the edge of the other grave and rolling them in. After a quick trip back to the car for supplies, Faith emptied the rock salt and lighter fluid onto the bodies. She lit a handful of matches and tossed them into the victims' grave and then did the same for the Vetala.

When the corpses had burned into smoldering ashes, the Slayer found her way to Walnut Grove, the single cemetery in all of Worthington. Small towns that weren't on a Hellmouth really gave you perspective. Even though she waited for over an hour, lurking near the single freshly dug grave, nothing stirred. Not even a stray cat. It was singularly disappointing.

As a result, when she got back to Westerville, Faith decided to make a detour and check out their cemetery. Otterbein contained three new residents, rectangular patches of brown earth which stood out against the lush summer grass, despite the darkness. She stayed here for another hour, taking advantage of the quiet to go through the full series of stretches that her first Watcher had taught her.

Her muscles loosened up, she lay in the grass next to one of the recent graves. Stake in hand, the Slayer counted the stars. You couldn't see them this clearly in Cleveland. Or in L.A. Faith looked upwards and set her mind free to wander. She thought about cemeteries and Slayers; about the weird relationship that she had with death (not as weird as Buffy's, thank G-d, but still pretty damn weird); about the man waiting for her in the hospital.

Eventually, Faith's thoughts ran themselves into twisted circles, and she resigned herself to a lack of Slayage. If anyone was going to rise tonight, they would have to do so without her. She had a game of strip poker to get to.

She tiptoed into the darkened hospital room around one-thirty to find the hunter fast asleep. The television was still on, showing that cheesy crime procedural that starred some dude's sunglasses. Moving as quietly as only a Slayer could, she set Dean's duffel bags against the foot of his bed.

In the faint light from the TV screen, she divested herself of her various weaponry and cleared off the faux-leather recliner. Faith knelt to unlace and remove her boots before curling up in the La-Z-Boy. Tucking her feet beneath her, the young woman faced the door into the hallway, a knife balanced in her lap. The chances of anything following back here were very slim, but still. Just in case.

* * *

Faith had thought she could get over her dislike of hospitals. Hell, she wasn't even a patient this time. And honestly, the last time when she had been, she hadn't even been awake for most of it. She had managed well enough the day before, keeping her cool until she wasn't needed any more, then leaving with an excellent, well-thought-out excuse. No one could accuse a Slayer of cowardice if she was heading out to hunt vampires. Walking through the empty hospital hallways in the middle of the night had been slightly creepy, but nothing special.

Overall, she was proud of her self-control, her decorum. Until five frakking o'clock in the frakking morning when some idiot bimbo nurse came knocking on the door, coming in to draw blood for that morning's lab values. Dean didn't seem too discomfited, once he got over the second's worth of shock at waking to find himself in a hospital (he hid it well, but you had to get up earlier than that to fool a Slayer). He smiled cheerfully while the bimbo hooked up an evacuated tube to the needle port still in his arm.

Despite the fact she wasn't the one being stuck with a needle, Faith withdrew even further into her recliner, glaring at the blonde's obnoxious display of over the top flirting, and ignoring the amused glances that the hunter was sending her way. She wasn't jealous. No way. It was just freaking annoying. The Slayer scrunched her eyes tighter in an attempt to block out the fluorescent overhead lights and began reciting a list of hell dimensions in her head. Maybe, if she wished really hard, the giggly nurse would be transported to one of them.

Finally, the nurse finished, turning the lights off behind her as she went. Enveloped in darkness, Faith's body instantly relaxed. She squirmed in the La-Z-Boy, shifting her weight to relieve the pins and needles in her left foot. Faith listened to the hunter chuckling softly for a moment before drifting back to sleep.

They were woken again less than an hour later, when the new resident on duty entered the room to interview Dean in preparation for morning rounds. This one stayed even longer than the nurse had, listening to the man's heart and lung sounds with his stethoscope; asking a series of questions about the date, recent sporting events, and the weather; and briefly removing Dean's bandage to check the wound on his neck.

Even then, Faith might have been able to hold it together, had it not been for the barrage of scrubs who invaded the rooms just before seven a.m. She observed through lidded eyes as their resident – Dean's resident – began presenting Dean's case to the oldest, white-coated scrub. The head doctor then conducted his own physical examination of the patient.

It blew her mind how Dean could just lay there, not getting bothered or upset or defensive. He was playing the groggy-from-sleep card, but Faith saw through that. A hunter of Dean's caliber would have to be drugged out of his gourd or deathly ill not to be aware of what was going on.

Surreptitiously shifting the knife in her lap between the arm and seat cushion of the recliner, she moved it out of sight, fighting off the worries blossoming in the back of her mind. Had this happened to her? All those eight long months in Sunnydale General? Had her room played host to a troop of white coats, all looking her over,  _touching_ her, like she was some kind of animal at a fair?

She could feel his eyes on her again and wondered blankly what that meant. Could he guess, somehow, that she was freaking out? Was he warning her to be quiet, still, not to move until the posse of medical professionals left?

Someone mentioned, "the girlfriend," and Faith felt the regard of the entire group come to settle on her. Shoving her knife deeper into the La-Z-Boy, the Slayer opened her eyes. She stretched her arms above her head, a more expansive gesture than necessary, and yawned widely.

_Don't be you_ , hissed the cautionary voice in her mind.  _Be Buffy. Be Willow. Be anyone. Just don't be you_.

She should not have been surprised when her mouth opened and a slightly buzzed version of her mother rolled off her tongue. "Morning, gents." A warm smile emblazoned itself across her features. Faith made no move to adjust her low neckline, or tug her t-shirt down from where it had ridden up in the night. She addressed the head doc with an ingratiating tone. "How's he lookin', Doc? Think we can head home this morning?"

The physician said something about wound care and being concerned about healing. Faith climbed out of her armchair and wove through the half dozen scrubs, perching herself on the edge of the hospital bed with a syrupy, "Scoot over, honey." Dean scooted over out of shock.

Claiming one of his hands with her own, Faith continued to lie. They'd just been down for the day yesterday, she claimed with another of her mother's smiles, but their home was out Cleveland way, and it would be so nice if they could just go home. "I'lll bring him right in to our doctor, if anything goes sideways," she promised.

He couldn't say for sure, not until they got the lab values back, but if he did release Dean, it would be a big responsibility for her. Did she really feel comfortable changing the bandage? The doctor warned that it would be a good few days before the bite marks scabbed over properly.

"Oh, blood doesn't bother me," the Slayer assured him, tightening her grip on the hunter's hand in case he got any ideas. "Does it, honey?"

"Not a bit." Dean's beaming smile looked out of place, but thankfully the doctor was too preoccupied with something the resident was telling him in an undertone to pay attention. "She's quite the trooper," he added, receiving an elbow dig to the ribs for his pains.

"So?" Faith pressed hopefully. "Whaddya think, Doc?"

The older man hemmed and hawed, but Faith wouldn't let up until he agreed to sign the discharge papers as soon as he finished rounds.

* * *

Sure enough, it wasn't quite ten o'clock when they hit the road, making a quick stop for a couple of Egg McMuffins, two coffees, black, and an apple turnover. Neither spoke much for the first thirty miles, too focused on eating, navigating, driving. They let Zeppelin do the talking for them.

Halfway through the cassette, Dean turned down the stereo. He wasn't sure that this was the right time, but there was never going to be a right time, so he might as well get this over with.

"Can you get something out of the glovebox for me?"

Faith fumbled with the catch momentarily before she pulled it the right way and the glovebox dropped open in front of her knees. "Whatcha need?" Given tacit permission to explore, she scanned the glovebox's contents with interest: several faded, outdated copies of insurance, a dog-eared owner's manual, one of Dean's burner cell phones, a tire gauge, a handful of fake IDs, and a square shaped bundle covered in masking tape.

"There should be a thing, uh, about four by six, it's got bubble wrap on it."

"This?" She brandished the masking tape bundle. The Slayer raised her knee and closed the glovebox with a snap.

"Yeah. Open it."

"Okay." Faith picked at the masking tape with her fingernails. She peeled it off in strips and unfolded the bubble wrap to reveal a figurine of a rearing horse, carved out of charcoal grey stone, shot through with veins of white. The horse's head was thrown back, and its mane stood out in frozen waves.

"What's this?" she asked in confusion.

One hand on the wheel, Dean reached over and plucked the horse from her lap. "I was going after this chupacabra in Juarez . . . Found this little guy and thought of you. His name's Smokey," he explained, setting the figurine down on the bench seat between them. The horse balanced on its curved back legs and flared tail. Dean picked him back up and returned him to the Slayer before Smokey could fall over. "Kept meaning to send him to you, but I never got around to it."

"Thanks," Faith replied, fingers closing around the stone horse, not entirely sure how to take this. He had been on a job in Mexico, thinking about  _her_? She steered the conversation – and her thoughts – to safer waters. "Why Smokey?"

"Smokey the cowhorse?" He said the words like he expected them to mean something to her.

"Not ringing any bells. Sorry."

"It's this book. They made us read it in school – I think I was in sixth grade. We spent two months in Pea Ridge, Arkansas. Was actually in school long enough to write a book report. Choices were Anne of Green Gables, or Smokey the Cowhorse. I picked Smokey."

"Lemme guess. Smokey's gray?"

"Yep."

"Cool." She examined the horse more closely. "You know, Smokey seems kinda badass."

"He is. Cowboys, bandits, you name it – Smokey'll take 'em down."

"Huh." Faith stood the figurine on her thigh, guarding it with one hand on either side in case it should tip over. "I think I'm starting to like you, Smokey."

The hunter's lips curved upwards slightly as he turned the stereo back up to the sound of Robert Plant's mournful lament about a stairway to Heaven. His foot tamped down on the accelerator, sending the Impala speeding faster toward Cleveland. Music reigned once more in the car. And for the first time in four months, Dean allowed himself to believe that this might work out okay after all.

 


	21. The Passage of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a transition chapter. Fancied moving on to the next part of our story. After all, it's almost time to meet Sammy...

 

**October 6, 2005, somewhere along I-94**

Dean Winchester would come to look back on the fifteen months spanning July of 2004 to September of 2005 with fondness, nostalgia, and just a hair of longing. It was not a perfect year and change, not by any means. You didn't get perfect when your last name was Winchester. But, if you didn't inspect things too closely and ignored the gaping hole that was Sam's absence, it was about as close as he could get.

More often than not, now, John sent Dean out on jobs by himself with nothing more than a set of coordinates and a one-sentence description of the problem. "Shtriga in Wenatchee." "Disappearances in Tallahassee." "Skinwalker in Austin." Dean loved being treated more like a rational adult and less like a five-year-old. Not infrequently, the older man would add, "Why don't you call up that Slayer girlfriend of yours? Take her with you."

No matter how many times he insisted that Faith wasn't his girlfriend, John never seemed to believe him. Apparently, Faith had the same problem with the Girl Scout troop on her end. Dean guessed he could understand the confusion. They played a couple often enough, on the road in some two horse town or staggering through the sketchiest parts of Cleveland, setting traps for vampires too naïve to recognize their predator.

Truth be told, it wasn't as if he and Faith had never slept together. There had been that one night in Nashville, with the tequila and the karaoke bar and that god-awful Shania Twain song. And the time in Park City. And that weekend in San Diego.

For the most part, though, it wasn't like that at all. Once every other month or so, he'd swing by her place on his way to or from a case, out of quarters and clean underwear, as interested in her washing machine as he was in her company. Sometimes, Faith and her backpack would leave with him. They always slept in different beds, even when he was crashing at her apartment or joining in on some vampire nest takedown. Hell, half the time, when they did go out for drinks at the end of a job (or during), one or the other (or both) of them would go home with a stranger.

Slayer prickliness aside, it was deceptively easy to be with her. By their third time hitting the road together, they already knew each others' snack preferences: peanut M&Ms and Hostess fruit pies for him; popcorn and Rolo's for her. The Slayer phrased most of her requests as "if you're interested" and rarely picked fights. Faith didn't care about sleeping closer to the television or the air conditioner or complain about the predictability of his music. She didn't talk about her feelings, much. Oh, she'd whine and curse and complain about the irritating behavior of the Watcher's Council, but she didn't probe him to divulge the deep stuff.

The closest they'd come was that night last October, a couple of weeks before Halloween, when Faith had somehow convinced him that star-gazing while waiting for vampires to rise was perfectly acceptable behavior. He had stretched out in the grass next to her, grumbling about how ridiculous this was. Faith hadn't been fazed. He remembered her hand reaching up, tracing constellations in the night sky above them.

Dean had teased her about how casual she always treated the Slaying thing, about acting as young as her Brat Pack always did. He had forgotten his exact words. But he couldn't forget her response – rolling onto her side to face him, saying something about this being her second chance to do things right, before turning back over again to point out Orion. They had spoken for a few minutes, about the things they'd do over if they could, but then Bill Tompkins clawed his way out of his grave, and the moment was over.

He couldn't recall sharing this comfortable camaraderie with anyone outside of his family, and some days, driving out to jobs alone, he missed her. On other trips, however, everything that Faith did reminded him that she wasn't Sam. Sometimes he resented her presence in the shotgun seat of his car so much that it hurt like a toothache. Thankfully, whenever that happened, the Slayer picked up on his sour moods and left him alone. It wasn't unheard of for her to take a plane or a bus home after a job, rather than ride back with Dean, if things were tense or if he had pissed her off sufficiently.

Bit by bit, what started out as convenient and fun became more complicated as they were pulled gradually into each other's lives. There were the little things. Smokey, Destroyer of Chupacabras and Defender of the Innocent, lived proudly on Faith's desk. The Slayer started keep a spare toothbrush in her medicine cabinet for him around Thanksgiving.

One late night in Idaho, after spending several hours showing her the best way to clean her Smith & Wesson, he told her the code to the combination lock on the arsenal in his trunk. And that weekend in San Diego, she demanded he wear something other than plaid, dragged him to a night club, and finally taught him how to dance.

Faith's birthday came round, a little bit before Christmas, when he was in New Mexico on a case with his dad. The family they ended up helping owned a jewelry store in Santa Fe. After the dust settled, they offered the Winchesters their pick of the merchandise as a sign of gratitude. Remembering all the times the Slayer had griped herself out for not wearing one, he mailed her a silver crucifix on a thin chain, a small green turquoise stone set in the middle.

The night he turned twenty-six, Dean made the mistake of getting loaded and calling her up. The Slayer lounged on her bed and kept him company until they were both reasonably sure that he wasn't going to pass out and choke on his own vomit. Sitting outside some podunk bar in his Impala, too drunk to drive the five blocks back to a motel, he confessed that he wanted nothing so much as to haul ass to California and beat the sh-t out of his jerk brother. Another birthday, another unanswered call to Samantha. To Faith's credit, she never once brought it up afterwards.

In April, after a week without a case, John announced his intentions of finally meeting this Vampire Slayer that his son was obsessed with. He still hadn't let the girlfriend thing go. The more Dean tried to convince his father that he didn't have a thing going with the Slayer, the less John believed him. Why else would he have a toothbrush at her place? (Dean regretted the day he'd ever mentioned this.) John decided that they should surprise the Slayer with a visit. Dean attempted to argue, but was rapidly shot down.

It did not go over well. When they arrived, there was a black '67 Plymouth GTX pulled up outside, and Faith was entertaining. She was not pleased to see them; he could see it in the lines around her mouth as she smiled and the falsely cheerful tone she adopted. There was an incredibly awkward moment where Dean wondered if she was even going to bother inviting them in.

But she did, and with a what-the-hell shrug led them into the kitchen and introduced them to Angel and Spike, two old friends of hers from California. Two old friends who were currently passing a pitcher full of dark red liquid between them. John's face spasmed with disgust, and Dean grabbed his father's arm before he could cross the room and start gutting the monsters. For their part, the vampires simply commenced with the snark.

Faith leaned against her kitchen counter, sending a barrage of text commentary to someone while vampires and hunters squared off against each other. The Slayer watched the pissing match with mild amusement for several minutes before sharply reminding everyone that they were all her guests and that if they couldn't get along, they could get the hell out of her apartment.

That shut them up. Then followed one of the most bizarre evenings of Dean's life thus far. He sat with his dad on one side of the table, the two vampires on the other. Spike and Angel both wore long, black leather coats, dark jeans, and black t-shirts. The only way to tell them apart was by remembering which one was a brunette and which was peroxide blond.

Content to play hostess (or bouncer, if things got out of hand), Faith rummaged in her fridge and passed everyone a beer. She found a deck of cards in one of the kitchen drawers and organized an impromptu poker game, causing Dean to seriously consider whether or not she got her rocks off on potentially lethal situations. As she dealt out the deck, she leaned forward, and the crucifix he had sent her tumbled free from the neck of her t-shirt. It dangled inches above the vampires' hands, but neither of them seemed to be particularly aware of it.

Yeah, he decided when the Slayer began alternating between making jokes at the hunters' expense for ones at the vampires' expense, she definitely had a danger-seeking problem. Ten minutes into the poker game, another thought hit him. Angel was the name of the bloodsucker who had bitten Faith. The hunter stared at the dark vampire with new disgust, but the monster didn't notice.

After losing the first three rounds of poker to the fanged duo, Dean managed to convince his dad to call it a night. Back in the car, John had a bellyful to say about the Slayer – none of it flattering. The younger man shrugged and let it all wash over him. If there was one thing he had learned about Faith, it was that she did what she wanted, and she could take care of herself.

To Dean's relief, the entire episode seemed to put his dad off the seduce-the-Slayer train without him going so far as to forbid his son from seeing her or planning her demise. And life continued as usual.

Over the Fourth of July weekend, one of the Slayerettes had the brilliant idea to plan a three-day trip to her parents' cabin on a nearby lake. Somehow, Faith got co-opted into going as a chaperone. She sent Dean a desperate text three days before the event, hoping he had a case that she could use as an escape excuse. Not only did Dean not have a case for her, he went ahead and drove to Ohio to join in on the fun.

Like so many other brilliant teenage ideas, the lake excursion ended in food poisoning and melanoma-quality sunburns. Ferrying vomiting teens back from the cabin to town, Dean admitted to Faith that perhaps they would have been better off investigating a haunting. Her single raised eyebrow in response spoke volumes.

With a grin, the hunter reflected that, although the trip had been a disaster, there had been one afternoon that was almost worth having the baby Linda Blair's puking in his backseat. Almost.

Amy, the Slayerette whose cabin it was, had been teasing Faith about being a city girl and not knowing how to swim. Faith laughed gamely at herself in front of the Brat Pack, but later confided to Dean that she wished she could swim – beyond a doggie paddle, that is. They had spent the next few hours in the lake, ignoring the high-schoolers. On second thought, that was probably when the kids had contracted salmonella. . .

A few months later, a voodoo thing came up in New Orleans, and John called his son's attention to it. "I want you to take the Slayer with you, this time," he ordered, scribbling down the address of his Louisiana contact on a piece of paper. "It's been a free-for-all down there since that hurricane struck. You'll be better off with a Slayer for back-up."

"You're not coming?" Dean asked before he could stop himself, already packing his duffel. He winced, realizing how childish and petulant that sounded.

John scowled in irritation. "No. I've got some things to take care of here in Minnesota."

"Yes, sir."

In less than an hour, he was well on his way to Cleveland to meet up with his temporary hunting partner. Faith had sounded curious about the possibility of voodoo and adamantly refused to do anything involving alligators. She claimed to have had her fill of them in the past. When he picked her up, she was going to have to tell that story in full.

Dean drove south and east, Slayers and alligators in the back of his mind, already planning the first stages of this new job. Little did he know this would be the last road trip with Faith for a very long time.

 


	22. Rock You Like a Hurricane, pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It makes absolutely no sense for Dean to have been in New Orleans barely a month after Hurricane Katrina hit. And yet, due to filming schedules and the sheer unpredictability of nature, that's what canon states. So we're going to run with it.

 

* * *

**October 5th, 2005, Cleveland, Ohio, 9:00 p.m.**

The dented charcoal fiberglass door swung back six inches, and a towheaded face with prominent cheekbones poked out. A faded scar zigzagged its way through his raised left eyebrow. The single lightbulb dangling in the hallway cast a thin fluorescent halo about his shoulders and head. "Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in," drawled the vampire, his narrowed eyes cold chips of blue ice in his pale face.

Dean's hair stood erect on the back of his neck, and he closed his throat against the bone-deep revulsion rising up in his stomach, tightening his vocal cords until he almost felt the need to gag.

As unobtrusively as possible, the hunter slid a hand to the revolver tucked into his waistband. His fingers froze when they brushed the grip. Bullets didn't stop vampires – not even a headshot could do the trick.

He quickly scanned through his current arsenal: Bowie knife in the inside pocket of his leather jacket; another knife stuck into his right boot; a smaller pistol strapped to his left ankle; brass knuckles in a second pocket; and a lighter and a book of matches in a third. None of which would be super useful in taking this bastard down, hard. "Faith in?" he spat around gritted teeth.

The vampire looked him up and down dismissively. Then, with a jerk of his head into the depths of the apartment, he tugged the door open and moved aside. "She's in the back."

Stepping into the apartment, the hunter took care to maintain as much distance between himself and the monster as possible. In the stronger light of the hallway, he could see now that the vampire's right arm was bound up in a blue sling. A series of inflamed slash marks streaked across that same hand.

"Werewolf," the vampire said shortly, catching the scrutiny. The two men eyed one another for a long moment, and then, as if by some silent agreement, sidestepped down the hall and into the living room, neither trusting the other enough to present their back as an inviting target.

The vamp split off here, dropping down casually onto the couch. He lifted an abandoned video game controller from the coffee table and returned his attention to the racing sports cars frozen on television screen. With a jerk of his head, he indicated the back hallway. "Faith's in her room."

Saying "thank you" to a monster would be too surreal, even for Dean. The hunter paused for a moment, staring. "What happened with the werewolf?"

Shoulders lifting in a slight shrug, the vampire didn't look away from his race. "He was trying to eat a hobo and didn't want to come quietly. Baby Slayers have bloody awful aim with the tranq gun. It was the hobo, the sixteen-year-old loading the darts, or me. Figured I had the best odds . . ." His voice trailed off into a stream of quiet invective as a bright yellow car zipped past him. "Ask Faith about her arm."

" _Her_  arm?"

"Yep." The vampire popped the 'p' obnoxiously. "She prolly won't mention it, but make sure she shows it to you, before you take off on your little couples' road trip."

Dean let this one pass. John had called it something similar, although with significantly less irony. "Right," he muttered, leaving the monster to lose his game. He rapped once on the door to Faith's room, knuckles brushing against the cheap white paint. A faint voice mumbled something, and he turned the door knob and went in.

A faded red duffel gaped open on the queen-sized bed, the hilt of a short sword poking out at one end. Beside it, a black backpack bulged, filled to the brim with clothes. Faith glanced up when the door opened, her hands falling away from their struggles with the backpack's zipper. She was on her feet in an instant. "Dean."

"Hey."

Perhaps other people hugged when they reunited, but not them. Faith did not give off much of an 'embrace-me' vibe. Instead, they regarded each other for a long moment, checking for new signs of stress, strain, or injury.

Put on guard by the vampire's words, Dean scrutinized the Slayer a little more closely than he otherwise would have. Nearly three months had passed since their last excursion, a quick trip to West Virginia to check out a reported haunting on a Civil War battlefield. Her hair was maybe a little shorter than it had been then, and she looked a little thinner, but nothing extreme.

"You and Spike manage not to kill each other in the entryway?"

"Hard to believe, I know. What kinda name is Spike, anyway?"

Faith punched the contents of her backpack down and forced the zipper across the top. She tossed it gently against the wall next to the door and rifled through her duffel bag. Dissatisfied, she propped open the lid of her weapons chest and started digging. "You know, he's pretty decent, Spike. Good taste in cigarettes, good taste in alcohol, crap taste in women . . . I think you two'd get along, if you gave it a shot," she teased.

The hunter made a rude gesture. "Blow me. I don't make friends with vampires."

Snickering, Faith kept rummaging in the cedar chest. "And you think I shouldn't either?" She kept her voice lilting, obviously not taking this seriously.

It was a conversation they'd revisited on more than one occasion, and Dean wasn't in too much of a rush for a repeat. But, if she decided to ask, he'd answer.

"I don't get it," he said bluntly, watching while the Slayer pulled a crossbow out of the chest and considered it. "Nah, we're going after zombies. You won't want that."

This caught her attention. "Zombies?"

"That's what it sounds like, yeah."

"Crossbow could come in handy. I could shoot one through the eye."

Dean held up his hands in surrender. "You want to bring it, bring it."

The Slayer set the crossbow on the bedroom carpet. "I'll keep it mind for now. I kinda want a new recurve, though. Been a while since I used one of those."

"Not much long distance work lately?"

She chuckled. "Tragically not . . . what don't you get?" Her brown hair fell forward as she reached back into the chest. The scars from Angelus were barely visible anymore. Dean suspected that had he been unaware of their existence, he never would have noticed them now.

"How you can be friends with vampires."

Faith stuck a liter bottle of holy water into her duffel, along with the crossbow and a fat quiver full of quarrels. She added a handful of stakes out of habit and zipped the bag shut. "It's just two, and they've got souls," she pointed out without much heat. This discussion never took the two of them anywhere, but they still ended up having it every few months. "Angel saved me once – you know that."

"And the other one – Spike?"

"Died to save the world." She thought over this last. "I know a lot of people who've done that, actually . . . or almost done that. Guess it's kind of the way the story ends." The Slayer slung her duffel over one shoulder and lifted her backpack with her free hand. "You ready to go? I'd thought we could get a start early in the morning, but you probably don't want to stick around since Spike's staying for a while . . ."

"You're letting the vampire housesit?"

"He needs a place, at least 'til his arm gets better."

Dean seized the opportunity. "Speaking of arms . . . Bottle blond said you'd messed up yours?"

"It's nothing," Faith said sullenly.

"Show me."

Rolling her eyes, the woman dropped her bags to the floor. She yanked her long-sleeved tee shirt over her head, revealing a thick white bandage that stretched from her left elbow halfway up her shoulder. "Satisfied?"

"What happened?"

"Ifrit. Genie meets Balrog. Some idiot dabbler who teaches at the university brought one back from a research trip to Iran. Thought he could control it."

"He couldn't," the hunter surmised.

Faith snorted in exasperation. "Can they ever? Anyway, the ifrit flew the coop about two weeks ago. I got this pretty little souvenir when we banished him back to his desert ruins."

"How bad?"

"Second degree burn. Had to go to the hospital and everything. But it's okay, s'long as I put lots of goop on it and change the bandage twice a day." The Slayer pulled her shirt back on. "You gonna make a big deal out of this?" she issued the challenge.

Two years of dealing with the Slayer, and Dean had learned an awful lot about picking his battles. "No. It's your arm. You had dinner yet?"

She shook her head. "Nah. I've been sleeping most of the day – if you saw Spike, you heard about our little wolfy problem last night. Didn't get in until nine this morning. Been meaning to go grocery shopping, but it's been crazy around here ever since the moon started getting full. I've got mac and cheese somewhere in one of the cabinets, think there's some hot dogs in the freezer . . ." Faith' voice trailed off as the man made a face. "Wendy's on the way out of town?"

"Deal." He grabbed the handle at the top of her backpack in one hand and picked up the duffel in the other. "You ready to go?"

Frowning slightly, Faith reached for her backpack. "Hey. I can get that."

Dean lifted it easily above her head. "Uh-uh. You've got a busted arm, remember?"

The Slayer was not amused. "You said you weren't going to make a big deal out of it."

"I'm not. I'm being a gentleman. This is what gentlemen do."

"Hold my clothes hostage?"

"No." Dean pushed the bedroom door open with one shoulder. "Carry the lady's luggage."

Faith followed him out into the living room, where the vampire was still playing some idiotic video game. "Hey, Spike, you hear that? Dean thinks I'm a lady."

"Congratulations, kitten," Spike called back without turning his head. "How many times did you have to hit him over the head for that little idea to stick?"

"Absolutely none," she smirked triumphantly. "You gonna be okay on your own for a couple of days?"

"Go."

"Car keys're on my desk. There's a good quart of blood in the fridge – Lily can get you more when you run out. She and Amy are supposed to stop by tomorrow night, check in on you."

"Mighty thoughtful of them, considering they're the reason I almost became puppy chow. Go. Your Knight Rider in muscle car armor doesn't seem the patient type."

"Anything goes belly up while I'm gone – "

"I'll convince the Slayerettes to pull their weight for once. Now,  _go_."

Freed of her responsibilities, Faith flashed the vampire a parting smile and practically hauled Dean out of the apartment. She was that eager to be gone. The hunter set her bags in the back seat next to his while Faith climbed comfortably into shotgun.

He turned the key in the ignition as she pawed through his shoebox full of cassettes. Dean didn't mind. The Slayer was pretty okay at picking music. They made one stop at a fast food drive-through on the way out of Cleveland for burgers and shakes before merging onto I-71 South, headed for Louisiana. It was a good fifteen hour drive, but he figured they could get at least a couple of those knocked off tonight. If the vampire hadn't been crashing at her place . . . but he was.

Dean glanced over after passing a semi to catch the Slayer watching him curiously. He'd never admit this, not to the woman with the mercurial temper, but he secretly thought she was prettiest this way, without makeup or her so-called "slutty vamp bait" outfits. It wasn't a question of ugliness – Faith was always hot. Deep down though, he preferred her like this, relaxed and authentic.

"Yeah?" he asked when he caught her still watching him, five minutes later.

"Thanks for not trying to kill Spike."

"You're welcome?" It sounded like there was something else that she wanted to say. He adjusted the dial on the radio, dampening the music ever so slightly. Sometimes, with Faith, you had to duck and cover until she finished venting about whatever had put a kink in her tail. Paradoxically, other times you had to coax her into spilling whatever was on her mind.

"You remember Giles?"

The hunter thought for a few seconds. "The old British guy?"

"Yeah, that's him. G-man has a project for me. In England. I'm thinking about taking him up on it . . ."

"What's he want you to do?" Dean felt grateful for the relative darkness of the Impala, for the privacy that it provided both of them. Still, he knew from embarrassing experience that the Slayer had damn good night vision, so he kept his eyes on the road and kept his face as expressionless as possible.

"They've got a Slayer there, who's causing quite a bit of trouble. She's not exactly playing nice with innocents. They want me to . . . uh . . ."

"Be her sponsor? Rogue Slayers Anonymous or something?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

It shouldn't bother him, the thought of her taking off. After all, he was rarely in one state for two weeks in a row. Somehow, though, it did. "When's the job?"

She hesitated before answering, "Pretty soon. Giles's working on some of my papers and things so I can officially leave the country."

"You still seeing your parole officer?"

"Yeah, and that's part of what he's figuring out."

"So, England, huh? You gonna ride one of those double-decker buses and see that big old clock tower?"

"I think I'll be doing more work than sightseeing."

"Mmm."

"You know . . ." Faith paused. Her tone was extremely casual, but Dean had heard her interrogating vampires enough to see through it. She never sounded that unconcerned unless it was an act. "I could probably talk the Council into forking over airfare for two . . . if you wanted to come visit. See what the Watchers' Council headquarters is like and stuff."

"I don't fly." The reply came out more gruff than Dean had intended.

Her voice became almost defensive as the Slayer backed off, double-time. "Okay. It was just an idea."

"Thanks, though. Tell me more about this Ifrit business? I thought djinn were just legends."

The tension in the car relaxed again, with a safer topic for conversation to focus on. Dean wondered briefly what exactly it was they were always dancing around. Two years into this bizarre thing of theirs, and they had never actually sat down and talked about what they were doing. The hunter had a sinking feeling that there was no simple answer to the question. Or perhaps the answer was too simple. Hunting with a Slayer was different, new, exciting. And he was reluctant to give that up.

* * *

The clock on the dashboard was reading 2 a.m. when they finally called it quits for the night. He dropped Faith off at the main office of some dinky Rodeway Inn and let her go do her thing. She emerged five minutes later, brandishing the room keys in one hand. Her smirk as she slid back into the front seat of the Impala meant that she had succeeded in getting the manager to give her a AAA discount once again.

One of these days, he was going to take a special trip to Kinko's and make the Slayer her very own fake AAA membership card. Then again, he reflected, Faith probably enjoyed the flirting to get the discount more than the discount itself. For all her refusals about using fake IDs, she had way too much fun conning sleep-deprived motel employees.

Dean followed her directions around to the other side of the motel. Squeezing his car into the only open parking spot, three doors down from their hotel room, with a creeper van on one side and a beat-up Subaru on the other, he grumbled about idiots and how if anybody messed up his baby's paint job, they were going to have an extremely rude awakening. The traces of a smirk lingering at the corners of her mouth, the Slayer simply opened the passenger side door with exaggerated care.

Her arm had started aching again, about half an hour back, but she was still in a good enough mood to mess with him. Well, that was something. He was used to her now, to her occasional mood swings and tendency to storm the castle unprepared, and a supremely cranky Slayer at the beginning of a trip never boded well.

Grabbing her bags out of the back seat, Faith left him to get his own crap and lock up the car. She moved the motel room's single chair into the doorway, propping it open, while she checked out the place. It was tiny, mildewed, and had only the one lumpy bed. Fan-damn-tastic.

The hunter dropped his duffel on top of the rickety dresser, yanking out a can of salt. He sprinkled a thick line of white crystals across the doorway and the lone windowsill. All the while, he wondered if this time the manager hadn't been the one to get the drop on somebody. Judging by the angry, jerking way in which she was making vampire-proof sigils in invisible ink on either side of the cheap doorframe, Faith thought so, too.

Finishing up first, Dean hit the head before collapsing facedown onto the side of the mattress closest to the door. The Slayer seemed more jumpy than he was tonight, so he'd let her have the wall at her back. Eyes closed, breathing through his mouth a little to avoid the musty smell of the motel sheets, he toed off his boots, letting them drop to the ancient carpet.

Dean listened as the Slayer shut off the lights and stepped into the bathroom. Even through the closed door, he could hear her softly grumbling to herself. Huh. That arm must be bothering her more than she'd let on. There was a slight rip and the sound of some kind of package opening as she tore the bandage off and replaced it. The toilet flushed, the sink ran, and then Faith flicked off the bathroom light as well.

The mattress dipped with her weight. She pushed him gently to one side to free the blankets trapped beneath the man's body, muttering a little groggily, "Come on, Dean. Stop hogging the covers."

Tugging the comforter loose, she rolled him back to his original position, seemingly unaware that he was still teetering on the edge of consciousness. He heard the quiet snick of steel as she unsheathed a knife and slipped it underneath her pillow. Hazily, Dean remembered that he was weaponless, but he was too tired to care.

Faith lay down and pulled the covers over them both. One of her feet accidentally brushed his leg and was quickly retracted, for which Dean was grateful. Her toes were ice cold. After fidgeting for a few moments, the Slayer found a comfortable position. Dean listened to her breathing, unconsciously matching his rhythm to hers, until her exhales slowed, and they both fell asleep.

 


	23. Rock You Like a Hurricane, pt 2

**October 6** **th** **, 2005, New Orleans, Louisiana**

The motel alarm went off far too early, prompting a series of angry curses from the two hominid-shaped lumps. After taking bleary-eyed showers and changing clothes, Faith and Dean piled back into the car, settling in for the twelve-hour drive that awaited them.

As road trips went, it was fairly pleasant. Faith slept most of the way through Kentucky, for once not getting her feet all over the car's upholstery. They managed to catch the Stones on a radio station that was playing whole albums, which got them halfway across Tennessee. The further south they drove, the cheaper the gas became as they approached the Gulf Coast.

They finally rolled into southern Louisiana around eight in the evening. Dean let out a low whistle as the hurricane's wrath came into view. The floodwaters of a month before had receded, leaving sheer destruction in its wake. It was as if a whole horde of poltergeists had gone to town, far as the eye could see. Houses, businesses, schools – many were gutted, their windows blown out. Others sat deserted, parking lots and driveways empty. Streetlights flickered feebly over the highway. Some neighborhoods were still completely dark. The roads were littered with craterous potholes, and he slowed the car to a crawl in an attempt to maneuver around the worst of them.

"Holy sh-t," said the Slayer next to him, her face plastered to the window. "I had no idea it was this bad. You ever see anything like this?"

Dean glanced at the piece of paper in his lap, scribbled with directions from his contact, then looked up. He wanted to take in as much of this as possible. "Once. Drove through Oklahoma after that tornado in '99. Much smaller scale there, though."

Silence filled the car. Somehow, it seemed inappropriate to talk or to joke around in the face of so much devastation. At last the hunter caught a glimpse of an open gas station just off the main road. Getting off at the next exit, he doubled back to the Exxon. While he filled up the car, Faith stood and stretched, rolling her shoulders back and reaching her arms up towards the sky. Finished, she walked around the Impala's trunk to come stand by him at the gas pump.

"What are we after here?" she asked quietly, despite the fact that theirs was the only car in the place.

Dean instinctively knew that the  _here_  she was referring to wasn't the gas station. "Told you. One of my dad's friends is down here, working on the relief effort. For the last couple of weeks, he's been hearing reports of zombie sightings."

A black SUV with deeply tinted windows pulled up to the pump next to them. Two thickset men with crew cuts hopped out. One headed into the Exxon while the other unscrewed the gas cap and prepaid with a credit card. The Slayer inhaled sharply through her teeth. "I don't like this," she confessed.

Disconcerted, the hunter glanced away from the fuel pump meter. "What?" The woman tossed her hair back, using that as a cover to nod significantly in the direction of the newcomer. "The private security guys?"

Dropping her voice even lower, Faith continued, "Yeah, maybe. I don't know. Something's off. Maybe it's this whole city. Look," she brandished her right forearm. In the crappy fluorescent light, he could vaguely discern a series of goosebumps. "My spidey-senses are tingling."

He laughed at that, as she had intended. When in doubt, make a wisecrack. Now that was something they could both agree on. The nozzle handle clicked, signaling that it was finished. He replaced it and closed the tank.

Slayer at his heels, Dean stepped inside to grab some snacks and pay. Faith ditched him to hit on the nebbishy guy behind the counter. Within moments, she had a list of the temporary housing sites that were being used by volunteers and a detailed map of how to get there. Just as she copied down the final camp's phone number, the first military-looking guy emerged from the back. The Slayer continued flirting as Dean paid up, and then they were off.

Back in the car, Faith and Dean compared the names of housing sites with the name that Dean's contact had given them before firing up the Impala and hitting the cratered road again. Another half hour passed before they pulled up at Camp Premiere, a tent city set up in St. Bernard's perish. The whole place was surrounded by a tall, chicken-wire fence, eight feet tall if it was an inch, crowned with we-mean-business barbed wire. It was more like a prison than anything. Dean pulled up to the checkpoint at the front gate and handed their IDs to the man in a sheriff's uniform at his window.

"We're working with Jim Murphy."

Those must have been the magic words, for the sheriff waved them through. He directed them towards a torn-up parking lot, the few remaining intact spots of concrete occupied by Land Rovers, Jeeps, and a couple of mud-splattered white vans. Dean made sure to double-check that the Impala was locked before heading toward the main body of the camp, where thirty or so tents clustered together on a large cement slab.

When they reached the outskirts of the tents, they were met by a red-faced man in his early forties, who introduced himself as Phil and joked about being in charge of accommodations. Due to the influx of volunteers this past week, all he could offer them was a single two-man tent. Dean accepted this with poor grace, but it couldn't be helped.

They followed Phil through the maze of tents to a heavily worn canvas structure that would be theirs for however long they decided to stay. Along the way, Phil pointed out the large mess tent, the outdoor showers, the latrines, and the "pod," a small trailer beside the mess tent where one person at a time could use the camp's single laptop.

These new digs were only slightly less mildewy than the motel room from the night before, barely 8 feet by 8 feet, and there wasn't room for Dean to stand up straight, except for in the very center of the tent. Except for the Internet, they'd almost be better off squatting, he concluded, stepping inside and stowing his duffel bags beneath the cot on the left. Crossing Mississippi, he had thought about mentioning it, but the sight of St. Bernard Parish stopped that idea cold in its tracks. There were abandoned houses aplenty. Abandoned houses without running water and working electricity, sitting on top of flattened cars? Not so much.

Faith breezily ignored his sour mood, setting up the protections on the entry flaps of the tent while Dean crouched in the center of the place, wool-gathering. In light of a battery-operated lamp, she opened her backpack and withdrew her spiral notebook, flipping through the pages until she reached a list of New Orleans cemeteries that she had made the night previous.

The hunter watched as she scanned the cemetery names, addresses, and brief descriptions, jumping from entry to entry with her index finger. She had meandered halfway down the page when someone on the other side of closed tent flap called out, "Knock, knock!"

"I got it," Dean announced unnecessarily. Deep into her research, Faith waved him away, turning the page to a pasted-in news clipping. The New York Times headline was too faded to read, but he knew it had something to do with Katrina's havoc on New Orleans graves. A frown pulled down the corners of Faith's mouth, and a v-shaped furrow deepened between her eyebrows. Whatever Slayer girl was hdiscovering, it was not making her happy.

"Coming," he called as the newcomer "knocked" a second time. Wishing he had a peephole to check through, first, Dean unzipped the door to the tent and drew it back to let in their company. Their visitor was a man in his late fifties, about five foot ten. His dark blond hair, liberally splattered through with patches of gray, matched his short, neatly trimmed beard. He wore a navy shirt, faded carpenter jeans, and a clerical collar. The two men embraced and stepped further into the already crowded tent.

"I think you two know each other." Dean closed the flaps of the tent with a smirk.. "Isn't that right, Faith?"

"Huh?" The Slayer looked up from her notebook. She studied the visitor for a brief moment, and then recognition hit. Faith got to her feet. "Well, I'll be damned. Pastor Jim?"

"Faith Lehane." He gripped her hand firmly and shook it once. "It's been a while."

"You still feeding congregations to bloodsuckers?" teased the woman.

"You still forgetting your clothes?"

She swept out her arms in a wide gesture, indicating her faded jeans, equally faded green tank top, and scuffed brown hiking boots. "I am as you see me."

The idea of Jim seeing Faith naked made Dean cranky. "Enough of that," he said brusquely. "Jim, you got updates for us? Dad didn't give me too much other than we've got a zombie on the loose."

Gathering her notebook and backpack into her arms, Faith cleared her cot so that Jim could sit down. She relocated to the other camp bed and spread her materials back out, then continued working on her cemetery-reviewing project, making leisurely notes and seemingly not paying any attention.

Neither man was fooled by her preoccupied air. Jim nudged his head a fraction in the Slayer's direction. Dean shrugged in reply.

Settling down onto Faith's abandoned spot, the pastor cleared his throat awkwardly and began his tale. He had arrived in New Orleans with half a dozen members of his congregation two weeks before to join up with Common Ground Relief, an organization dedicated to cleaning up – gutting, really – homes in the historic Lower Ninth Ward, an area of the city that had been hit particularly hard. It had not been intended as a hunting excursion, but the more he spoke with the residents who had stayed and weathered the storm, the more he realized something  _bad_  was happening in New Orleans.

"At first, I just thought it was trauma, you know," he confided "Everybody around here's been through hell, the last few weeks. Makes sense that they'd be a bit jumpy. And then on my third day, I started hearing all these rumors about the dead walking."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watched as Faith's pen hesitated on the page. Biting her lip in supposed concentration, she drew a tombstone with quick, shaky strokes. Unwilling to get sidetracked by the Slayer being weird, he turned back to his father's old friend. "Go on. The dead were walking?"

Pastor Jim shook his head. "That's what everybody was saying. The survivors . . . some of the volunteers, the one's that'd been here the longest. Katrina absolutely destroyed the graveyards around here. It's all concrete mausoleums, vaults and things, down in Louisiana, since the ground's below sea level. When the flooding happened . . . whole tombs were lifted and carried away, or busted open by the water, and their contents washed off to God knows where. Not only have all the living been displaced; the dead have, too. I'd be surprised if people weren't seeing haints."

The hunter's eyes narrowed.. "But you think it's more than that."

"I don't know, Dean. I really don't. On the one hand, you've got the hurricane and the National Guard and the private security forces . . . people you knew your whole life are evacuated or dead or just plain vanished. You don't know what took who. People are terrified. And then you add in the desecration of a century's worth of graves, and your most straight-laced skeptic is liable to jump at shadows – even if there isn't anything in 'em."

The older man sighed. "About a week ago, I started putting out more feelers. Hinting to folks that if they saw or heard or felt anything that seemed wrong-ish, to let me know. Gave out my number, too. That afternoon, I ran into an older lady named Madge. We helped tear down the inside of her neighbor's house the day I first got here.

"'You listen to me, boy,' she said, in this creaky, dusty voice, 'don't go asking no more questions. Nothing good can come of getting between a bokor and his work.'"

"A bokor?" This caught the Slayer's attention, and she looked up from her doodling.

"Voodoo priests who practice both black and white magic," Dean explained. "They've got quite a few tricks in their arsenal, but the main thing is that they can create zombies."

"Among other things," Jim added. "A  _wide_  variety of other things."

Faith processed this slowly. "So, you think there's a zombie problem? And that there's a rogue magician – sorry, bokor, behind it?"

The older man ran a hand through his short, graying hair. "That's what I thought when I called John, asked him to come himself or send some help. Last time I tangled with a bokor . . . I was twenty-five, and I almost didn't make it home. And I'm not quite as agile as I was back then."

"Great. So now we know what it is, we can take care of it. How do you kill a bokor, anyway?"

"Hold up, Faith. What do you mean, Jim – you  _thought_  it was a bokor when you called my dad? Did something change?"

He nodded. "Yeah, sure enough . . . Every day, the rumors just keep piling in. The number of disappearances, the sightings, the victims whose attackers are never found . . . it's too much to be the work of one bokor, even if he's made himself a pack of zombies. There's . . . too many coincidences, Dean. Something else is going on here. I just can't put my finger on it, yet."

Trusting Pastor Jim had become matter of course when Dean was barely brushing seven. He didn't balk at the man's suspicions, automatically taking them as fact. If Pastor Jim had a hunch, well, that was good enough for Dean Winchester. "What do you want me to do?"

"I haven't done proper field work since you boys were kids. Somehow the trouble always seemed to find me."

"Ain't that the truth," Faith added under her breath. Dean glanced over his shoulder to catch her eye. They shared an easy smile.

Jim observed this interaction and filed it away for later. "I'm gonna need you two to help me with Common Ground Relief – the more ears we can get out there, the more information we can get."

"Slayer bunged her arm up, can't really do construction. There other options? Ow." The Slayer in question pinged him between the eyes with a ballpoint pen. He tossed it back to her one-handed, rubbing his forehead. "What the hell was that for?"

"Dude. Not making a big deal about the arm thing, remember?"

Wisely deciding to ignore this, the pastor continued, "They've set up an animal shelter about an hour out of New Orleans. Sending people back into the city every day to find new animals and transport them to safety. Cats, dogs, pet rabbits, snakes, what have you."

"Snakes?" Faith asked in disgust.

Jim held up his hands. "Hey, I'm not the one who made that call. Anyway, they could always use an extra set of hands with locating and transporting the animals. It'd give you a good excuse to talk to people."

"Huh. Guess it could be worse. I always wanted a puppy," she mused, looking contemplative.

Dean sensed danger and moved to head it off. "You are  _not_  bringing a dog into my car."

Smirking, the woman raised her eyebrows.  _Oh, yeah?_ her gaze taunted silently.  _We'll see about that._

"There's something else," the older man added, his voice sounding tentative for the first time. The others' heads snapped back to him.

"Yeah?" prompted Dean.

"If this is some big thing – bigger than a hurricane and urban unrest and a passel of zombies – how is whoever's behind this gonna react when they find out there's a Slayer in town?"

A moment of silence followed this statement, and then Faith got to her feet, shaking her head and grinning.

"Let's go find out." She flipped her spiral closed and lifted her leather jacket off the canvas floor. The Slayer grabbed her duffel bag full of dangerously pointy things. Plopping it down easily onto the camp bed, she began pulling out her favorite supplies and securing them in various places on her person.

"You want to go poke the big nasty with a stick, when we aren't even sure what it is – or if it even exists at all?" Jim looked from the Slayer to his friend's son disbelievingly. "That seems a little hasty, don't you think? Besides, the roads are hell. They only just finished hauling flooded cars off of Canal street."

After taking a moment to enjoy the irony that was somone calling upon him as the voice of reason, Dean attempted to help the pastor out. "Maybe we should wait. Get a better idea of what we're going up against before we charge in, guns blazing."

Faith blithely ignored him, too busy strapping a pair of flat-bladed knives to her forearms, hilts pointed at her palms. Next, she shoved stakes into each of her boots and tugged her leather jacket on carefully over her bandaged arm before tucking an especially long, pointy stake and a water bottle filled with holy water into the inside pocket. She tossed the spiral notebook into the duffel with the rest of her arsenal and zipped it closed in one firm movement. At the exit to the tent, she glanced back over her shoulder, eyes dancing, eager and restless. "Coming, Winchester?"

It was impossible for him to resist her, despite - or perhaps because of - the trouble that always accompanied that look. "Okay, Ms. Frizzle. We'll take a field trip. You got a map, Jim?" Dean reached for his own jacket.

"I got a couple in my car . . ."

"Awesome. I think we're gonna need 'em."

* * *

**October 6** **th** **, 2005, Odd Fellows Rest, New Orleans, Louisiana 12:15 a.m.**

It was their third cemetery, with no signs of movement – human, animal, or dark undead – and Dean was beginning to regret going along with this idea. His stomach had started growling about half an hour into this little field trip, but Faith kept charging ahead with no signs of stopping.

The first cemetery, Gates of Prayer Two, had been deathly quiet and deserted, paved with concrete paths. Apparently, this town had so many graveyards that they'd had to double up on names. Interspersed between the walkways were the stone graves, walled with marble and paved over with concrete. Knowing where to step was quite tricky. The storm had expended itself on the graves here, tipping the concrete slabs onto their sides to reveal gaping holes in the earth beneath. Occasionally, the faded yellow of ancient bone gleamed as the pale beam of Faith's flashlight shone down into the 8x4 chasms left by Katrina.

The only dangers here were tripping hazards, whether you caught your ankle on an outstretched marble curb or banged your knee on a toppled-over tombstone, faintly inscribed in some foreign language. Dean recognized it as Hebrew, but he couldn't interpret a word of it. The Slayer moved rapidly through the cemetery, walking with easy grace in long, loose strides. Occasionally, she would stop and tilt her head back, sniffing the air. Extending a hand in the hunter's direction, she gestured for him to be still while she listened.

Their second stop, Cypress Grove Cemetery, was filled with standing mausoleums of limestone and marble and brick, topped with moss-covered plaster angels. In better times, it probably would have been a beautiful, restful place. Tonight, it was ghastly. Very few of the mausoleums were still standing. Many of them had been broken open or toppled over. The storm had completely uprooted a few graves, ripping mausoleums and vaults out of the soft, fetid ground, and casting them aside dozens of yards from their original resting places.

More caution was required here, and even the Slayer seemed to take a break from her urgent exploration. She shifted from stalking mode back into conversational Faith, slowing down enough to talk to her partner. Dean welcomed the transition. As a general rule, Faith treated her "calling" so casually, that it always jarred when she became hyper-focused, a predator with eyes only for the vampires and demons she was tasked with killing.

"You realize that nobody's been buried here since at least before the hurricane, right?" he asked as they clambered over the shattered walls of a displaced tomb. "Which means that there aren't any new vampires to rise." He stepped into a hole and almost stumbled.

Faith caught his arm reflexively and kept him from going down. "That's not what I'm looking for. Your pal Jim thinks there's a big bad camping out in this city.  _Our_  kind of big bad. New Orleans is riddled with graveyards. People are searching through the city for survivors, victims, little lost puppy dogs. Kinda dangerous to take over an abandoned house, especially if there's going to be a lot of coming and going. But no one's coming here. They're too busy with the new dead to worry about the old dead just yet. What better place to set up headquarters?"

"So you're . . . doing what exactly?"

"Leaving a calling card. If anyone's watching, either they see us, recognize what we are, and go run to tell their boss. Or . . ."

"Or?"

"Or they don't recognize us, they try to have a midnight snack, and I get to make an example of them for all their little friends, and  _they_  go tell the boss." She released him and turned left down another unexplored path. "What're you packing, anyway? Machete, pistol, silver, the works? Whatever comes, we can take it."

"Famous last words," he called after her jokingly. Faith spun on her heel and gave him the finger. In the darkness, with the streaming light from the sickle moon illuminating her face, her dark jacket and jeans blending in with the shadows, she looked almost spectral, disembodied. A pale face surrounded by night, her lipstick a red gash across her mouth. Struck with foreboding, Dean's flesh crept. He fought off the urge to shiver.

That had been an hour ago. Now they were halfway across Old Fellows Rest, their third cemetery of the evening, and Dean's hunger had not abated. They had parked the Impala outside the wrought-iron gates that surrounded the Rest. Unlike the other graveyards, Old Fellows was tightly locked, the gates chained together with thick iron and a series of industrial strength locks. Faith scaled the fence easily, swinging her legs over carefully to avoid the rusty spikes on top. Dean followed with a little more swearing and a little less grace.

If Gates of Prayer and Cypress Grove had been abandoned, Old Fellows was desolate. The monuments were nearly all crumbling, the inscriptions illegible. Built on slightly higher ground than the others, it has escaped the majority of the flood damage. The destruction here was due to time and vandalism.

"No one's been buried here in years," Faith whispered. Something about this place demanded quiet.

Dean brushed the edge of a headstone with the palm of his hand. Some of the concrete came free and tumbled to the ground with a soft patter. "And no one's been here to try to preserve it, either."

"What did I tell you about grave desecration?" hissed the Slayer, mock-serious. The coquettish tilt of her head gave her away.

The hunter snorted. Of all the people he knew outside his family, only Faith could compete with him over who had the most experience with grave robbing. "Don't get caught."

"Exactly," she purred, tapping his shoulder in approval.

They came to the far edge of the cemetery and began working their way back to the front gate along the right-hand wall. Apparently having given up on the idea of any bloody work tonight, Faith began humming softly under her breath, rendering "Don't Fear the Reaper" in an oddly minor key. She broke off mid-chorus, jerking her hand away from the plastered stone wall.

It was the only warning Dean had before they were surrounded by half a dozen men, all dressed head to toe in black. He couldn't make out any of their faces, but they were built like football linebackers.

The Slayer squeaked, grabbed Dean's jacket sleeve, and cowered behind him in terror. "We didn't do anything. Please, please don't hurt us."

In the first moment of shock, it required nearly all of the hunter's self-control to keep from shaking her loose and demanding to know what the hell she was up to. But then the rest of his brain caught up, and he recalled the crossbow strung quite visibly across her back. Still, Dean mentally rolled his eyes. When they got out of this, he was going to remind her that her high-school cheerleader impression  _sucked_.

The leader of the brute squad stepped forward. "This is private property," he growled in a deep, sibilant voice. "You're trespassing."

With Faith playing the horror-struck ingenue trembling and whimpering behind her boyfriend, that left the fast-talking to Dean. "Our apologies." He attempted an affable smile but knew it came off as plastic. "We were just leaving. Weren't we, honey?"

"What are you doing here?" growled the leader without a sign of softening.

"Please don't hurt us," the Slayer repeated, an octave above her normal range. "We're going."

Dean forced a strained chuckle. "We're clearing out houses with one of the groups outside the city. Evenings are the only free time we get. She's got a thing for old graveyards. Thought we'd check a few out. Guidebook said this was the one least likely to get flooded."

"Please," whimpered Faith. "Nobody knows we're here." The hunter lifted his heel and pressed it down firmly on her toes. No need to overdo it.

Overdone seemed to be the order for the evening, however. The head honcho grunted something to his men, and then the brute squad escorted the trespassers to the front gate. They waited, stone faced, while Faith and Dean awkwardly climbed over. The limpet-like Slayer finally had to release her fake-boyfriend at this point.

All the while, Dean's mind raced, coming up with about six different potential explanations for what was going on here. He was halfway back to the Impala when he realized that Faith wasn't right behind him. Cloth whispered on stone. The hunter whirled, his partner's plan sinking in with sickening surety. "Faith!" he barked in a low warning.

Too late. The Slayer had already rescaled the fence and dropped down back into the cemetery. The commandos were looking at her and laughing. Their leader seemed to sense that something had changed.

"What is it, bitch?" he spat, taking a step into the woman's personal space.

"Game time," Faith replied coolly, one hand reaching into the inside of her jacket. Then she struck, fast as a snake, thrusting the stake in her hand forward into the man's chest. It plunged through cotton, slowing momentarily as she drove the wood through the triple layers of muscle between ribs. Faith twisted her wrist and pushed upwards, and the man exploded into a shower of ash as her stake found his heart.

The other five men stood, frozen with shock, their faces suddenly covered in hairy ridges and protruding fangs. Halfway over the gate, Dean hesitated, caught off guard. How had she known?

"Hello, boys," she announced. "Name's Faith. La assassine des vampires." When this garnered no reaction, she sighed in mock exasperation. "Really? I thought everybody spoke some wacked out version of French down here. Faith. The Vampire Slayer."

This caught their attention. " _Slayer_ ," chorused the vampires, a menacing, low murmur. As often happened when Dean watched Faith announce herself, he was struck by the inherent fear and wariness that her title engendered. One word. That was all the bona fides she needed.

"What's up with the matching leotards?" Without taking her eyes off the vampires, the Slayer reached down for the crossbow at her feet. "Huh? When did you lot get a style update?" She cocked the crossbow and loaded a bolt as she spoke. "Come on, boys, speak up. I haven't got all night."

The vampires glanced back and forth between the Slayer and one another, unsure of their battle plan after the death of their leader. Dean swung the rest of the way over the fence and moved to stand at Faith's side.

"Well? I'm waiting." She lowered her voice and addressed the hunter out of the side of her mouth. "Let the one I hit go."

" _What_?"

_Whoosh._ Faith raised the crossbow a few inches and fired. The vampire on the far left collapsed to the ground, cradling his knee, where the wooden bolt now pierced the joint. "Okay, y'all are just . . . boring."

Before the remaining four vampires could get over their bout of stupid, the Slayer shot two of them in the chest. Then, dropping her bow, she closed in on one of the last two vampires standing. She knocked him off his feet with a roundhouse kick to the stomach and staked him while Dean beheaded the other one.

Not yet finished with the dramatics, the Slayer crouched in front of her wounded victim. She gripped the crossbow quarrel sticking out of his knee and wiggled it a little from side to side. Just enough to make the vampire scream.

"Oops." Faith twisted the bolt again, eliciting another shriek. "Here's what's going to happen, short bus. You're going to go tell all your little friends about the big bad Slayer, and then you're going to haul ass out of this state so fast that you leave your shadow behind you. Got it?"

"And if I don't?" snarled the vampire.

The Slayer smiled tightly and drew the quarrel out, twisting and dragging it on the slow way through muscle, tendon, blood, and nerve. "Then I'll make  _this_  look as friendly as a lover's kiss. Get it?"

Scrambling to his feet, the vampire backed away slowly. "Got it."

"Good. Now get the hell out of my sight." Faith stood and watched the vampire limp away through the decaying mausoleums. She didn't much care where he went. If this was the big lair, there would have been far more than six vamps sent after them. When he vanished into the cover of the night, the Slayer turned to her erstwhile hunting companion. "Well?"

Dean sheathed his machete and lifted Faith's crossbow from the dew-covered grass. "Let's go."

He didn't say another word as they gathered the fallen quarrels and crossed the fence one final time. Dean waited until they were back across town, the flimsy canvas flaps of their tent zipped up and velcroed shut behind them, anti-monster wards and protections firmly in place.

Finally, when they were as safe as they could be while on a job, he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her against the center pole of the tent and held her there. Not hard enough to hurt, but forceful enough to show her that he meant business.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded. "What if that guy hadn't've been a vampire? What if the others had been a little bit quicker on the draw? Or if I'd been a little slower getting over that fence? You'd be dead. We'd both be dead. What the frakking hell were you thinking?"

The Slayer didn't move to push him away. She grinned wolfishly, and Dean realized with a wave of revulsion that she was still on her post-Slaying high.

"I know vampires," she answered simply. "Knew it was a bunch of fangs almost as soon as they appeared. Just wanted a few minutes to confirm. Waited for you to get out of the way so you wouldn't get hurt."

Dean fought the urge to shake her until her teeth rattled in her thick, stupid, reckless skull. "We're partners, Faith," he ground out, his own teeth gritted around the frustration. "You don't get to make those kinds of calls."

"I'm the Slayer." This time, there was added heat in her tone.

"You've got a death wish."

She laughed without humor. "And you don't? Don't lie, Dean. It doesn't look good on you."

The hunter's fingers closed a little tighter on her collarbones. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Always throwing yourself in front of someone else? Willing to go the extra mile to save a civilian? Particularly when it involves a lethal situation? Sound familiar? . . . . Let me go," she added. He retracted his hands and moved away. Faith patted him absently on the chest, brushing against him as she walked around to the far side of her cot.

She paused, one hand resting on the top of her backpack. "Don't worry, handsome. I'll keep this our little secret." The Slayer's sardonic smile flickered briefly. "One way or another, it all ends in blood. Nothing wrong with trying to make it a little heroic." Turning her back on him, Faith began divesting herself of her weapons stash.

Hands clenched into fists, Dean watched as stakes and knives dropped to the floor. He was trying to think of a truly biting comeback, but nothing came to him. Partway through removing her leather jacket, the Slayer stopped.

"Hey, Dean?"

Unsure what new devilment she'd concocted now, he met her gaze steadily and more than a little angrily. "Yeah?"

Faith looked flustered. "This is kinda awkward, after that little dust-up, but . . . can you help me? The bandage is sticking to my sleeve. And it kinda hurts."

Of course it would be something like that. "You want me to take care of it?"

"Would you?"

"Sure." He crossed the room to her and gently eased the jacket away from the injured arm. She inhaled sharply as the wrappings peeled off her burn. "Here. Sit down." Dean lifted the bottle of burn ointment out of the top of Faith's backpack and gathered fresh gauze and tape from her toiletry kit.

Perching next to her on the edge of the camp bed, the hunter took her arm into his lap. He smeared liniment on the rust-colored burn with the pads of two fingers. Faith flinched slightly.

"Guess I overdid it tonight," she said with another wince.

Applying a second coat of ointment, Dean did not disagree.

"Sometimes, my mouth gets away from me." Faith added as an embarrassed afterthought while he wrapped the burn with swift competence.

"Yeah, mine too." Dean finished bandaging her arm, but he let his hands linger. Faith leaned against his shoulder. Both knew that this was the closest they were going to get to apologies. It might not have been enough for someone else, but Faith and Dean were content.

 


	24. Rock You Like a Hurricane, pt 3

**October 7** **th** **, 2005 Camp Premiere, St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana, 6:30 a.m.**

"I'm hot-blooded – check it and see! I got a fever of a hundred and three! Come on, baby, can you do more than dance? I'm hot-blooded! Hot-blooded!"

No, please no. Anything but Foreigner. Faith rolled over onto her other side and reached down to pull her comforter over her head. "Turn that damn thing off," she groaned.

Her search did not encounter a fluffy duvet. Instead, her fingers closed around the thick cotton and polyester of a military sleeping bag. She forced her eyes open, gummy and heavy from lack of sleep. In the dim light filtering through the tent roof, she recognized the cell phone being held scarcely a foot away from her ear, and the smirking man holding it.

The Slayer gave up on sleep as a bad job. "Is this payback for last night?" she asked, rubbing her eyes blearily.

Dean's smirk widened. Jerk. "Rise and shine, princess. First van into the city leaves in half an hour."

"Why are you being a morning person?" The woman sat up and swung her legs over the side of the cot. Still in her clothes from the night before, she reached into her bag for a clean pair of underwear and another t-shirt. Her jeans should last two more days at least. "Turn your back," she ordered. "I'm gonna change."

He complied. The nice thing about having a fight, Faith mused, sliding yesterday's shirt over her head, was that they were both on their best behavior the next morning. "How long've you been up?"

"Half an hour. Grabbed a quick shower at six – good thing, 'cuz the lines right now are insane – and then hit up the mess tent. They've got the good MREs, too."

"Great." She infused the word with as much sarcasm as possible. "As long as it's the good MREs. Okay, I'm finished. You can turn around."

"Figured you'd say that. That's why I grabbed some Poptarts. Here." Dean tossed two packs of strawberry poptarts in her direction.

Faith caught the pastries by reflex. Holding the plastic packaging up to her nose, she pretended to inhale deeply. "Ahhh. It's moments like these when I think you might actually get me."

The hunter rolled his eyes. "Right. Hold the enthusiasm – it gets better. I even brought you this – " he brandished a plastic Aquafina water bottle – "so you can brush your teeth. Trust me, you don't want to use the stuff out of the cistern that they're pumping through the showers." He grimaced.

She took in the water bottle with mock awe. "Breakfast  _and_  water? How's a girl to react?"

"By saving us all from your dragon breath, swamp monster. Jim's back in the mess tent – I'm gonna go talk to him, firm up plans for today. Meet me by the internet-pod thing in fifteen?"

"You got it. Thanks for the food."

Dean shrugged. "Don't worry about it."

"No, really." The Slayer's face twisted, and the man knew that she was about to make some sort of emotional statement. He wished she wouldn't – it was a little too early in the day for feelings. "Thanks. I give you a ton of crap for getting on my case and stuff, but I don't always mean it, you know? It's . . . sometimes it's kinda nice."

"Whoa. Take it easy, overshare. It's just poptarts." Before either one of them could contract an even more serious case of foot-in-mouth disease, the hunter backed out of the tent. He set off across the campground for his rendezvous with Pastor Jim. Dean smiled grimly to himself. Apparently, even apart from Sam and his dad, looking out for your hunting partner wasn't something that faded easily.

* * *

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 11:15 a.m.  
** **Message:**

Why did I let you talk me into this?

. . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 11:40 a.m.  
** **Message:**

Lemme guess. You got bit by a dog.

. . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 11:50 a.m.  
** **Message:**

Didn't you?

. . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 12:30 p.m.  
** **Message:**

These animals are freakin feral.

. . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 12:45 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Big words for a Slayer

. . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 1:00 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Bite. Me.

. . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 1:05 p.m.  
** **Message:**

I thought Kujo already did that?

. . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 1:30 p.m.  
** **Message:**

FYI, it was a stupid, fat, yellow cat, and it clawed through the leg of my jeans. I think I need stitches.

. . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 1:40 p.m.  
** **Message:**

You got taken out by Garfield! )

. . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 1:55 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Garfield's orange, Bob the Builder.

. . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 2:15 p.m.  
** **Message:**

It's Bob the Destroyer today. They've got us wearing masks cuz of the mold.

. . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 3:00 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Wtf. I just chased a golden retriever half a mile before the frakking van showed up with bacon bits. These animals are insane.

. . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 3:30 p.m.  
** **Message:**

You blame 'em? They've got it worse than the people.

* * *

"Listen up, gang."

The Slayer hastily slid her phone into her back pocket. "Yeah?" She glanced forward to the front seat, where Eliza, their weather-beaten driver, was watching her.

"Okay, guys." Eliza was a police K9 handler in her early forties who hailed from Kansas City. "I just got a call from Common Ground. They found a message spray-painted on one of the houses in the Lower Ninth. Someone saw a beagle running around Forstall Street near that totaled Jerusalem Temple Baptist church two days ago and left us a note. You kids ready for some more action?"

Faith stretched her legs forward until her shins knocked up against the seat back in front of her. She glanced into the rear of the van, where the last two rows of seats had been taken out to make room for half a dozen Petmate carriers. The sizes of the crates ran the gamut from kitten to Mastiff. Remembering the irascible retriever, she added, "Long as this one doesn't try to bite me or hump my leg, I'm down."

The other volunteers laughed. Kyle, a National Guard private with curly dark hair and serious brown eyes, met Faith's gaze and winked. Since New Orleans was technically still under martial law, even the ASPCA wannabes on puppy rescues had to take a soldier along. Lana and Dana, poorly named blonde twins from Ole Miss who had more money and altruism than experience, giggled heartily at the nonplussed look on the Slayer's face.

Eliza shook her head at the whole lot of them. "Girls, this'll be our last one for the day. Let's bring him in and get him out to the shelter, okay?"

"What if it's a she?" teased Dana, the twin in the blue shirt. It had taken the better part of the day for Faith to learn how to tell them apart, and she was dreading tomorrow when they changed clothes.

"Yeah. I mean, we shouldn't make assumptions about the poor dog's gender, right?" Lana, the twin in the yellow shirt, joined in.

"Or the dog's age," added Kyle. After seven hours in close quarters with four sarcastic women, he was finally loosening up enough to participate in the conversation. "It might be a puppy."

The good-natured banter lasted for the entire drive to Forstall Street. It took several passes up and down the road before they could determine which destroyed church was the New Jerusalem Temple Baptist. They split up into groups to find the painted message that Common Ground had mentioned. Dana went with Eliza, and Lana trailed Kyle. As was her preference, Faith struck out on her own.

At the beginning of the morning, neither the policewoman nor the guardsman had believed her when she claimed that she'd rather work alone. It had taken her neatly disarming Eliza and coming just a hair short of knocking Kyle off of his feet in a flurry of kickboxing moves before they were convinced.

Each team agreed to walk four blocks in their assigned direction, calling and looking for the beagle. When someone found the dog, they would use the walkie talkie at their belt to call the others. If an hour's search proved unsuccessful, they would return to the church and rethink. Everyone took a brightly colored nylon collar and a leash from the back of the van, as well as a collapsible doggie bowl, a bottle of water, and a small bag full of bacon – it worked far better than dry kibble.

Faith strolled leisurely up Forstall, heading northwest. When she came to the first cross street, Tonti, she checked out her options. On the left, there was another street of the desolate hulls of broken houses. On the right, about a hundred yards down, the houses ended and a large park began. Which direction looked more promising? Personally, Faith thought that the overgrown park with its toppled over jungle gym and swing set was the less depressing option. But the beagle would have other priorities.

Closing her eyes, she took a moment to imagine that she was starving and cold and wet, and that she had no home to go to. The Slayer chuckled sourly. If that was all it took to be a dog, they might as well slap a leash on her and call her Fido. That description resonated with far too many memories for comfort.

_Focus_ , she reminded herself. Hungry. Cold. Wet. Not really anywhere that wasn't cold or wet in New Orleans, right now. But food. Where could a beagle, most likely someone's pet, find food?

Abandoned houses it was, then. Faith tugged her leather jacket a little straighter and crossed the street. Empty as they were, she felt extreme reluctance to actually enter any of the buildings, and so she wove from one side of the street to the next, examining the sidewalk, driveways, and what little lawn remained for dog droppings or pawprints. Her tracking skills were coming in handy on this gig, although she couldn't remember the last time she'd gone after an actual monster using its poop for guidance.

"Here, puppy," she called aimlessly every thirty seconds or so. The Slayer did not expect an answer. After a month of being on his own, even if this dog had been a pet, he probably wasn't going to come trotting out to meet her, tongue lolling, tail wagging.

To Faith's incredible surprise, she was halfway down the block when exactly that happened. There came a sharp, soft  _yip_ , and a scrawny white, tan and black bundle barreled out from the yawning hole where someone's front door had been. The beagle skittered to a halt in the road ten feet away from where she stood on the sidewalk and tilted its head to the side, regarding her warily.

"Hey there, little guy." Faith dropped to one knee to seem less intimidating. She unfolded the water bowl and set it down at arms' length. Uncapping her water bottle, she filled the bowl to the brim. Then, she opened the ziploc bag full of bacon bits and scattered a careful trail of them from just beyond the bowl to a spot of concrete beside her knee. "You hungry? I've got some bacon."

The beagle's ears perked up at the words bacon. He – she could see quite clearly now that it was a he – came six inches closer to the water bowl and paused again. Faith waited, holding herself as still as possible. She tried not to breathe too loudly, in case that scared the dog away. Quite frankly, she'd had enough of chasing animals today.

"It's okay, boy. I'm not gonna hurt ya. It's okay. Come on, buddy. You like bacon?" She kept up a running pattern of nonsense in a quiet, soothing tone, copying the one that Kyle had used on the golden retriever earlier. Something about it must have worked, for the beagle approached again, a little closer this time. Two excruciatingly slow minutes passed before the dog made up his mind and padded to the water bowl. He dipped his muzzle in and lapped at the liquid enthusiastically.

"'Atta boy, Rover, 'atta boy. You're a good boy, Snoopy." Faith had been trying out common names on the dog, on the off chance that one of them might be his. The dog lifted his head and wagged his thin, muddy tail half-heartedly.

Having drunk his fill, the beagle moved on to the bacon bits. He snapped each meat fragment up as quickly as possible, barely appearing to swallow. Either the dog had decided that Faith was not a threat, or the bacon bits were more appealing that she was frightening, for he followed the trail of bacon bits all the way to its end.

Then at last, confident that she would not miss, the Slayer swooped. She grabbed the beagle around his middle and held the squirming, barking dog in the crook of one arm while she fumbled to get the nylon collar around his neck with the other. Finally the plastic buckle clicked into place, and she clipped the leash to the collar. Faith set the writhing animal on the ground and stood.

Once released, the beagle settled down and returned his attention to the bacon bits. Huh. This was the weirdest any dog had behaved all day. She was relieved that he hadn't made any lovely additions to her fresh collection of claw and tooth marks, but it kinda made her wonder.

"You okay, buddy?"

The beagle looked at her and wagged his tail again.

"Buddy? That your name?"

Buddy yipped softly.

"Okay, bud. You should know, I have like zero experience actually walking a dog, so this might be kinda hairy." Faith tipped the remaining water out of the collapsible bowl. If she had seen signs of any other animals, she would have left it. As things were, the shelter was already freaking out about running out of supplies. The Slayer wrapped the leash carefully around her wrist and tugged on it gently to get the dog's attention. "You ready?"

The dog barked.

"I'll take that as a yes." Pulling the walkie talkie loose from its holster, Faith checked that she was on the right frequency. It was time to make a call.

* * *

**October 7** **th** **, 2005 Camp Premiere, St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana, 5:45 p.m.**

By the time Pastor Jim, Dean, and their fellow relief workers returned from demolishing houses, the animal shelter crew and the other volunteers who had stayed back at camp were already hard at work preparing a hot meal for all of the camp's inhabitants, including the National Guardsmen. Somebody had collected fallen tree limbs and chopped them into firewood, and a handful of cook fires were scattered throughout the camp. The Guard had provided beef, potatoes, onions, and a few other ingredients for hobo dinners.

The hunter found Faith at the fire closest to their tent, standing with three other women – two mega-hot blondes, and a serious looking ginger who was a total MILF. Faith looked up from turning over several foil packages at the outskirts of the fire as he approached.

"Hey, honey," she said, the picture of nonchalance. "How was your day?"

Dean resisted the urge to frown. He wished she wouldn't go with the whole boyfriend cover, not when those blondes were avidly checking him out, but he understood her reasoning. It made the most sense, and it would give them a handy excuse when they needed to leave the group and work. "It was good – I think. Gutted three or four houses completely." He met Faith's gaze expectantly.

"Oh, right. Dean, this is Lana, Dana, and Eliza." She indicated each woman in turn. "Guys, this is my boyfriend Dean."

"Pleasure to meet y'all." He nodded to the three of them and smiled charmingly. The twins and the older woman returned the gesture. To his gratification, Dean noticed that the appraising interest in Lana and Dana's eyes had barely faded now that he was supposedly taken. He managed to keep his amusement out of his face. "How was puppy rescue today?"

"Interesting that you should say that," drawled the blonde wearing yellow.

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah," snickered her sister. "Isn't that right, Faith?"

"Huh?" Her attention back on the fire, Faith was a little slow on the uptake. "Oh. Um . . . right."

Dean sensed that there was something here. "What's this, some inside joke?" He kept his voice light and teasing.

The twins giggled. "You gonna show him, Faith?"

"Show me what?" A twinge of unease crept into the man's voice. He wasn't a huge fan of surprises. Faith knew that – or she should, since she wasn't that big on surprises herself.

Looking at him apologetically, Faith strode over to their tent and stooped inside. When she emerged, there was a skeletally thin dog in her arms. Dean vaguely recognized it as a beagle. Faith stroked the dog's head awkwardly as she came back to the cooking fire. "Dean, this is Buddy. Buddy, meet Dean."

"Holy sh-t. I thought you guys were supposed to take the animals to a shelter, not bring them back to camp?"

"Faith tried, she really did," the twin in blue jumped in. Lana? Dana? He had already forgotten. "But Buddy tried to bite all the workers at the shelter."

"You should have seen it, Dean," added the other blonde. "He was freaking out and just so miserable, that we couldn't have left him there. None of us had the heart."

Eliza saw the look of burgeoning anxiety on Faith's face and the mild irritation on her boyfriend's. "We got him cleaned up at the shelter, if that makes you feel any better. Got all his meds and a special bath designed to kill all fleas, ticks, or lice that he might have on him. He's about two years old, and shouldn't get too much larger. Except sideways, of course. Little guy hasn't had much in the way of groceries lately."

Dean hadn't quite gotten to the idea of fleas and ticks yet, and so this news only made him feel worse. "You planning on bringing him back with us? Sweetheart?" he tacked the endearment on as an afterthought.

Setting the dog on the ground, Faith did not directly meet his eyes. "I'd like to send him back to the shelter in a few days, once he's a little less . . . frantic. This is just temporary. I promise."

"Well, in that case . . ." Dean crouched down by the beagle and held out his hand for the dog to sniff. "Hey. Buddy, is it?" At Faith's nod, he shook his head in disbelief. "You've already named him? Yeah, he's  _totally_  going back to the shelter." He gave the dog a few experimental pats and rose to his feet. "At least he's not one of those little fluffy, yappy things."

The Slayer was still watching him with an air of concern, and Dean realized a little more reassurance was needed, even if only for their audience. "He's cute, babe. He can stay with us for a couple of days."

"Thanks." Faith threw her arms around him briefly, whispered a hasty "Sorry" in his ear, and pulled back. "I hoped you'd like him," she continued in her normal voice. "Did Jim come back with you? I made sure to stick in an extra hobo dinner or two for him."

He took the easy out she was offering. "That was nice of you. I'll go find him, let him know."

"Great. Dinner should be another twenty minutes or so. If the pod's empty, you might send your family an email, let them know we made it okay. Or, if you find the med tent, could you get me some antiseptic? I want to do a better job of cleaning out those scratches from Garfield." She brushed her left forearm with her other hand almost imperceptibly.

Dean translated this to mean "Check your email. There might be news on the hunt. And I'm running out of crap for my arm. Get stuff?" He nodded to show that her message was received. "Of course. I'll see y'all in a bit."

As he walked away, he heard one of the twins blurt, "Oh my g-d, Faith. You didn't tell us your boyfriend was movie star handsome!"

"Didn't I?" Faith sounded amused.

"I can see why you came down here with him," said the other twin, her voice carrying loudly across the somber campsite. "If I was dating somebody that fine, I wouldn't let him out of my sight for a second."

Eliza's voice joined the conversation. "Girls, keep your voices down, unless you want everyone and their dog to hear you." Buddy barked in support of this statement, and all four women laughed.

Unable to keep himself from smirking, Dean headed for the internet trailer. He'd check his email, call his dad, find Faith some bandages, grab Jim, and then return to the campfire and those seriously fine ladies. He had a feeling that this job might end up being quite fun after all.

* * *

Near the end of dinner, Faith excused herself from the group of volunteers to go take a shower. With nearly everyone in the entire camp busy with eating, she handed Buddy's leash to Eliza, ducked into the tent for her backpack, and took off, aware of Dean's questioning look and choosing to ignore it.

He hadn't been  _completely_  off-kilter, suspecting her of something, the Slayer had to admit as she killed the shower and dried herself off with her clothes. Neither she nor Dean had thought about bringing towels, earlier, and now she was deep in Regretland. Behind the cover of the shower curtain, Faith tended to her Ifrit burn. All the chasing after animals today had caused it to crack open and weep a little – not blood, but a pale, watery fluid – and to ache whenever anything touched it. She sniffed the arm experimentally, but it just smelled like cheap soap and skin. She decided not to worry too much about it.

Once she had the burn bandaged back up, she smeared some antibiotic ointment into Garfield's gauges in her right thigh and applied a couple of heavy duty bandaids. That cat had been a straight-up psycho.  _Takes one to know one,_  Faith thought pessimistically, tugging her jeans up and over the scratches.

Finished dressing, she lifted her bag and crossed the campsite to the parking lot. Faith took care to take a weaving course through the tents that never brought her into the eyeline of her own camp. One hip against the side of the Impala, the Slayer flipped open her cell phone and dialed out. She listened to the call ring for thirty impossibly long seconds before someone picked up.

"Faith? To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

He actually made it sound like a pleasure, even though she knew it had to be pushing two a.m. or later in England. "Nothing but an apocalypse, G-man."

The "apocalypse" word had the power of ruining anyone's cheerful mood. "An apocalypse? Faith, where are you? Is everything all right?"

She decided to answer the second question first. "New Orleans."

"Isn't that where they had that dreadful hurricane?" He pronounced it like "can," not "cane."

If she'd had any talent with accents, Faith would have tried to copy his. It was – what was the word – plummy? "Yep. Looks all Day After Tomorrow around here."

"I, uh, see. And you . . . is everything all right? Er, pardon me for being a bit slow, but it is rather an ungodly hour. Is there something in particular that you wanted to discuss?" She could hear it now, the slight muddle-headedness and exhaustion in his voice.

"I'm good. All fingers and toes accounted for. Down here working with Dean, and the picture's getting kinda complicated. Can you get me an estimate of baseline demonic activity in New Orleans? Any vampire cults that tend to operate out of Louisiana? I want to make sure I'm not overlooking something."

"Ah." Something clinked on the other end of the line. Tea? Or something a little stronger? "Yes, if the current state of affairs is anywhere near the anarchy reported on the television, I would imagine that sudden surprises could be quite nasty. I take it you do not have access to the proper research materials?"

"No. Plus, G-man, you're the best there is at this kind of thing."

The former librarian chuckled drily. "I see you've been practicing your flattery."

"Is it working?"

"I shall see what I can discover. Give me a day or two. I'll call you when I finish. Or would you rather I sent the information via email? I am surprised you still have cell phone battery or service."

"I've been charging it in the car."

"Mmm." A discreet sipping noise. Probably tea. "Pardon the intrusion, but, Faith, are you sure that you are safe there? Do you need reinforcements, perhaps?"

She'd been around the block before and could read through the lines. "You don't think that Dean's good enough backup?"

"He is young, impetuous, a hunter . . . characteristics that rarely imply reliability. I . . ." Giles wavered, and she could hear him take another hasty gulp of tea. "I am simply concerned that you might get in over your head – the both of you – and not have help within reach. That's all."

Faith huffed in exasperation. "Look, Giles, it's kinda Apocalypse Now-ing all around us. Not exactly something you can bring the kiddies into. Unless you think Buffy or Willow'd be willing to blow off their pet projects and take the Batplane over here . . ."

His silence was answer aplenty. "Which, of course, they wouldn't. Not unless I knew every detail of the impending doom, which I don't. Geez."

"Perhaps Spike or Angel . . .?"

"I thought the Watcher's Council was pissed with them?"

"They have been Champions in the past for the Powers That Be and appear to still show some dedication towards you."

"Dean doesn't like them," Faith said without thinking.

"I understand his perspective. And, I'll see what I can do, but, loathe as I am to admit it, the vampires may be your closest source of assistance. Consider it, Faith?"

"Sure thing, G-man." She knew that her voice sounded sullen, but Faith didn't much care. Some secret part of her had been deeply hoping that Giles could solve her problems for her. She really needed to stop doing that - the hoping thing. The disappointment stung too deep.

"All right. I'll let you know when I have that information you requested. Good night, Faith. Please . . . please be careful."

Faith saluted the evening air, belatedly realizing that, of course, Giles couldn't see that. "You got it," she promised. "I won't go looking for trouble. Sorry to keep ya up. G'night." The Slayer stared at the cell phone for several long moments after hanging up. She drafted a couple of text messages and sent them off before she could get cold feet.

Returning to the main camp, she found that somebody (probably Dean) had gotten creative and ransacked the giant stock of firewood for logs that were large enough to serve as seats. Everyone had huddled close around the campfire, and Lana was regaling the circle with how she had decided to study civil engineering. Faith slipped in unobtrusively, finding a place next to the hunter.

"Everything go ok?" he muttered softly. To draw the group's attention away from his words, he wrapped an arm around the woman's shoulder and pulled her tight against his side.

"Should have results in two days."

"Patrol tonight?"

"Tomorrow." It bothered her to admit weakness, but he already knew about this one, so what the hell. "Arm hurts a bit."

Dean understood the "a bit" to mean "a hell of a lot" and didn't press the subject. "You take any meds?"

"In a minute."

"Hey, lovebirds! Quit that whispering!" Dana grinned in their direction. "Hahaha! You should see your faces! You look so guilty."

"Come on, guys," Lana added. "You've heard our stories. What's yours? What brings y'all to Camp Premiere?"

They had decided on their cover story on the drive down, and so this question was an easy one for Faith to answer. "Dean's a park ranger out in Colorado. I teach kick boxing, do MMA, that kind of thing. We had some vacation time coming up, thought we could maybe help out. And now we're here."

"How'd you meet?" Dana asked curiously.

"Through friends," Dean lied easily. His mind momentarily flashed back to that night, almost two and a half years ago, when the perfect one-night stand had walked into a faux cowboy bar and then walked out on him four hours later.

"How long have you been together?"

"Year, year and a half? Sound about right, Faith?"

"Something like that." The Slayer stretched and yawned, only half-faking it. "Think I'm gonna turn in early, guys." She retrieved the beagle from Eliza with a quiet "thanks." Turning back to Dean, she kissed him lightly for their audience's benefit. "Don't stay up too late, now. C'mon, Buddy. Bedtime." The dog wagging his tail avidly at her heels, Faith disappeared into the tent.

When Dean followed her thirty minutes later, he found the beagle curled into a ball at the base of Faith's cot. The weak light of his flashlight must have disturbed the dog, for he lifted his head and regarded the man suspiciously before snuffling and returning to his prior position. Dean added this to his ever-growing list of things to discuss with Faith when he had the chance. He really was not up for adopting a dog – or playing a long con of "happy couple."

Clicking off the light, the hunter stripped down to his undershirt and boxers and then crawled into his own military sleeping bag. He reached beneath his cot for the wickedly sharp Bowie knife that he had found in one of the abandoned houses that morning. Dean shoved the weapon, sheath and all, down into the depths of his sleeping bag. Then, his fingers tight around the knife hilt, he closed his eyes.

 


	25. Rock You Like a Hurricane, pt 4

**October 8** **th** **, 2005 Camp Premiere, St. Bernard Parish, 9:00 p.m**

It had been another extremely long day. After spending barely forty-eight hours in the compound, Dean could sense an emerging pattern: wake up, grab a MRE for breakfast, head out to demolish a house or clear fallen trees and electricity poles off of a road. Return around six at night, gulp down some dinner made by the volunteers who had stayed in camp, sit and talk with Pastor Jim until the camp settled down, and then take the car and go explore the next cemetery on Faith's list.

That night, they wandered through all three of the St. Patrick's Cemeteries – he honestly couldn't fathom why they didn't just give them  _different_  names instead of numbers. The first two had been empty, with no signs of zombies or fangs, just partially decomposed corpses disinterred by the hurricane. Partway through St. Patrick Number Two, Faith commented on the weather, how the night was surprisingly chilly, given how hot that day had been.

To their mild horror, they realized that the entire cemetery formed one giant cold spot. But there was nothing they could do, outside of giving all the bodies in the place an impromptu cremation. Neither thought that was an idea worth following through. The world might be content to ignore the ruined graveyards of New Orleans at present, but they suspected that a sudden outbreak of arson might get unwanted attention.

"The last thing these places need is two-legged Happy Meals," Faith concluded as they pulled up outside the third St. Patrick cemetery, parking the car behind a large stand of bushes. "Stay, Buddy. We'll be back in a minute."

"I can't believe I let you bring him."

The Slayer glanced back at the Impala, where the beagle was standing up on his back legs, nose pressed against the car window. "I put a blanket down."

"If he makes a mess in my car . . ."

"Relax, cowboy. He's been fine so far. And he did his business at our last stop. Nothing to worry about."

They spent over forty-five minutes in this cemetery, carefully picking their way through the wreckage left by the storm. Here, the only thing that moved was an owl, hooting sleepily in one of the few trees still standing. After canvassing the graveyard, Faith hopped up on top of a mausoleum that had sunk halfway through the softened ground. She sat cross-legged, removing a stake from her right boot and tossing it from hand to hand.

"Awful quiet." Dean climbed up to join her. "Suspicious or surprising?"

"Suspicious. I saw something funny today."

Leaning back on his hands, the hunter stretched his legs out in front of them. It was nice to be out here, even with the omnipresent cold spot. They could drop cover and just be themselves. "Yeah?"

"Four dead cats in an alley behind a destroyed warehouse."

"And that was weird?"

"Nah. We've been finding more dead animals than live ones, actually. Smells awful. Uh, no. That was fine. The weird bit was that all four cats had had their throats ripped out. Dry as bone."

"Huh. How long had they been dead?"

Faith shrugged. "Less than a week? I couldn't say any closer than that. They still had some of their fur, and the bugs hadn't gone  _all_ the way to town. A good few days at least, anyway."

"You thinking vampires?"

"Fits in with our little welcoming party the other night. What does Jim think?"

"We haven't talked about it much."

"Really? You're on the same work crew, right?"

"Yeah . . . we haven't noticed anything non-Katrina related. Or that couldn't be Katrina-related."

Dean didn't add that he had been less than diligent about talking over hunting things with Pastor Jim. It was just so good to be working with him again, standing side by side lifting debris or hauling tree trunks away with one of the one-ton trucks. He hadn't wanted to ruin that with depressing talking in circles, since they had no real leads to chase down. "You hear back from that friend of yours?"

"Not yet. It'll probably be another day or so. Giles likes to be thorough." She looked around the cemetery in disappointment. "Well, this is anticlimactic."

"You looking for a fight?"

"Long day, Dean. Long day. You ever get the feeling that you're being watched?"

"Yeah."

"Here?"

"Like, right now?"

"No, just the camp and stuff."

"Not so I'd noticed. Why?"

Faith abandoned pretense. Worry pervaded her tone as she stared straight ahead. "It hasn't really gone away, ever since we hit that gas station two days ago. It's all . . . itchy. Like something's got eyes on me, whether I'm on puppy duty or taking a shower or out on patrol. Even when I'm trying to sleep. Half the time when one of the twins opens her mouth and says something – even when it's only a little silly – I want to slap her. And when one of the guardsmen tried to hit on me tonight, I almost introduced him to my right hook."

"And yet you volunteered for potty training duty . . ."

"That's different. Buddy's like, the one normal thing about this. I mean, he's just some stupid dog with crappy people-judging skills, but, I dunno, he's like the one thing that isn't irritating."

"Thanks a lot."

She elbowed him. "Not everything's about you, princess."

"You sure this isn't like Slayer PMS or something?" The question blurted out before Dean could think about stopping himself.

"No, I don't think so. This feels external. The being watched thing started yesterday. I didn't feel like punching people until late today."

"Hmm." He jumped off of the mausoleum and offered her a hand down. "Doesn't look like anyone wants to come out and play tonight. Let's go check on your dog before he pees in my car."

Faith didn't need the hand, but she took it anyway. The gesture was oddly comforting.

They were almost back to the car when the owl hooted again. This time, the noise was unexpected, abnormally resonant, and unsettling as hell. The moon was starting to wane, and its sickly half-light combined with the cold of the cemetery made Faith shiver. She felt like someone had just walked over her grave.

The Slayer climbed into the front seat of the car, keeping Buddy at bay while she buckled her seat belt, and then she allowed the dog to attack. She had never had a pet before, but she was coming to enjoy the feeling of the warm, sleek fur beneath her fingers (still patchy in spots, but time would fix that). Buddy woofed and wriggled in Faith's grasp until he could give her hands a proper licking. To be honest, she didn't get the beagle's enthusiasm. Not one bit.

"You know, he might be growing on me," Dean commented, shifting the car into reverse and backing out of the bushes.

"Good." Faith turned her head to gaze out the window at the darkened ruins of New Orleans as they drove slowly back to Camp Premiere. "I don't think this city likes us very much."

Dean looked at her, at the excited dog in her lap, at the tense lines of her shoulders, at the way one of her hands clenched itself tightly around the door handle of the Impala. He wondered briefly what it would be like to have a mission from some higher beings or mystical forces. If this all went topsy turvy, or if John called with a more pressing job somewhere else, he could toss his things in his car and take off. Somehow, he doubted it would be that simple for Faith.

* * *

**October 8** **th** **, 2005 Camp Premiere, St. Bernard Parish, 11:30 p.m**

Rage surged inside of him, pulsing behind his temples. "What the hell was that?" he bellowed. It was incredible, an infinite, soaring high. "What if those hench vamps had been a little quicker on the draw? You'd be dead. We'd both be dead. What the hell were you thinking?"

The Slayer grinned wolfishly and ground her hips against his. She never made a secret out of her past-Slayage horny phase, but generally she wasn't quite so obvious about it, either. "Give us a kiss."

Dean jerked his body back, out of her reach, still keeping her pinned against the center pole of the tent with his grip on her shoulders. "Don't change the subject," he snarled. The hunter threw in the towel and let go. The fury was seductive, addictive – and he welcomed it, allowing it to fill every crevice of his being. He'd ride this anger until it burnt itself to ashes.

Laughing, Faith threw his hold off easily. She placed one hand on his chest and shoved him across the tent. The hunter crashed to the floor, smacking his skull against the edge of his cot on the way down. As he lay there, muzzy-headed, shaking his head wildly to clear it, the Slayer lifted her heavy boot over his right arm and stamped down. The thin bones of his wrist snapped with an audible crack. Dean's body automatically attempted to curl into a ball, cradling the injured wrist to his chest to protect it.

But Slayer girl wasn't having any of that. She straddled his stomach, knees on either side of his hips, feet hooked behind her to pinion his legs, her hands wrapped around his throat. He was paralyzed, unable to move or resist or even speak. "You know," she purred, choking him so that Dean's eyesight began blurring, "I was gonna draw this out. Have a little fun with this sweet little meatsuit – you'd die if you knew what she thinks in here. But you're just too damn annoying."

She squeezed tighter, and his vision started fading in and out. The last thing he saw was her eyes flashing to black, as the demon within revealed itself.

* * *

Dean woke to a pitch dark tent and the rush of his own blood pounding in his ears. Heart racing, he sat up and frantically checked out his surroundings. Something heavy was pinning his ankles down. The hunter jerked his legs free, dislodging the twenty pounds of dreaming beagle onto the floor. Buddy woke with a yelp as he slid from his warm nest and through the chilly night air. The sleeping form next to the man mumbled in her sleep, and Dean's heart rate accelerated even higher.

Ignoring the reproachful dog, the hunter reached beside his cot for the bottle of holy water he kept there. He unscrewed the cap and poured a handful of liquid into his palm. Dean sprinkled the holy water across Faith's head and shoulders, making sure to get some on her exposed neck. All the while, he whispered a desperate litany: "Christo, Christo, Christo."

When the Slayer didn't so much as twitch, Dean exhaled in relief. "Sorry about that, pup." He leaned over the side of the cot and lifted Buddy back up.

Unbothered, the beagle settled himself between the two humans. He scratched a satisfactory piece of canvas curiously and turned himself around in three tight circles. Then, with a huff of contentment, the dog lay down.

It was harder for Dean to relax. His whole body seemed to be wired up, ready to race out the door or fight for his life. If it wasn't one thing, it was something else. Slowly sinking back into the depths of his sleeping bag, he released his death grip on his Bowie knife and forced himself to count to seven between breaths. Even if he counted sheep, or flooded houses, or types of monsters, he knew that it was going to be at least an hour before he fell back asleep. Freakin' dreams.

* * *

**October 9** **th** **, 2005 Camp Premiere, St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana, 5:30 p.m.**

Another twelve-hour day spent tooling around in a dusty white van, chasing anything with four legs that might have once been domesticated. Only three days in, and Faith was trying hard to find the meaning of it all. What was the use of saving a couple of animals, when so many others lay dead and decomposing, right out in the open? While the remains of Katrina's human victims had mostly all been collected and moved, no one had started yet with the animals – or the cemeteries. It added a certain stench to the whole city – an underlying hint of decay that pervaded your clothes and hair and never quite went away, not even after a couple of showers.

She'd mentioned this at dinner the night before, thinking it was a normal enough sentiment. But everyone else had just looked at her quizzically, and Dana had yelled, "Something is rotten in the state of Denmark!" Somehow, the conversation had gone down all sorts of rabbit holes about dead poet guys and the power of the English language, and way way way out of Faith's comfort zone.

It didn't help that Hunter boy had read more than she had. He and Lana started bonding about a guy called Vonnegut. Vonnegut? What the hell kind of name was that? Faith had been stuck in the land of awkward, but then Dana asked her what book she'd read last, and she admitted that it had been Harry Potter. That set the twins off for almost half an hour – apparently they loved the wizard kid – and the book talk just kept going until it was time for bed – or hunting vampires, depending on who you were.

Keeping her mind on her day job and off of her night one was proving especially hard. Faith passed the time by focusing on whatever animal they were currently after, but even that got mundane fast. The highlight of the whole day occurred mid-afternoon, when a miniature pony, all black and white splotches, crazy hair, and crazier eyes, kicked Kyle in the family jewels.  _That_  was hysterical, despite the subsequent horse chase that ended half a mile later with Faith bringing the three-foot tall equine to the ground with a flying tackle.

Crazy Horse, as the little mare was instantly dubbed, managed to land her hooves in the Slayer's ribs several times, leaving her with a series of dully aching bruises. Climbing back to her feet, a rope around the psycho pony's neck, Faith reflected that she was going to get a lot of crap for almost losing a fight with a miniature horse. She could never tell Angel. Or Spike. Or Buffy. Giles might appreciate it, though. And Dean? He'd bust a gut.

That evening, she skipped out on dinner to check her email. It was time for G-man to hold up his end of the bargain. And come through, he did. When the deathly slow internet connection finally logged in to her account, there was a four-page long email waiting for her. She fired up the dinosaur printer beside the laptop and skimmed Giles' report while she waited for it to print.

_Faith,_

_As requested, I have spent the past two days searching for everything I could find on the occult and Louisiana, with particular emphasis on vampiric lore and New Orleans. I only did a cursory study of voodoo – your concerns seemed to be of a fangéd nature, and I believe that you would be best off directly talking to local inhabitants in order to understand the current voodoo culture in the city._

_New Orleans has a long and sordid history when it comes to vampires. At various times, it used to be the headquarters of the Three, a trio of assassins who worked for the Order of Aurelius. Buffy disposed of them in the late '90s, I believe in '98. The Watcher's Council has never assigned anyone to the city on a full-time basis because it is not situated on a Hellmouth. However, I have here compiled a list of notable incidents and individuals, along with a few suggestions._

_The first recorded encounters with vampires in the Mississippi River delta occurred as early as 1697. . . ._

Faith finished scanning the email and leaned back in the folding camp chair. Folding her arms across her stomach, she pursed her lips and sighed in exasperation. Four extremely detailed, well-written pages of neatly summarized occult research, and not a lick of it was useful. Giles had found squat on any Big Bads currently active in the area. It blew chunks.

Grimacing at the twinge in her ribs, the Slayer tugged the report free from the clutches of the printosaur. Well, nothing for it now but to hunt down something with teeth and do a little improvised interrogation. And about damn time.

* * *

**October 10** **th** **2005, St. Louis Cemetery #2, New Orleans, Louisiana, 10:45 p.m.**

"Okay, dumbass, this is how it's going to go." Dean lifted the fallen vampire by the lapels of his tattered suit jacket and shook him violently. "My lady friend here is going to ask you one more time, and you're going to answer her, get it?"

"And if you don't, we're gonna have a little fun." The lady friend in question pulled a long candle lighter out of her coat pocket and flicked the trigger. Crouching down beside Dean, she sent a short stream of bright yellow flame dancing inches away from the vampire's panicked eyes. "What'll it be?"

This vampire was fairly young and a bit dumber than most. Sandy-haired with faded blue eyes, he had probably been considered handsome when he was alive. Now, his burial suit ripped and frayed, his entire body covered in mud, smelling like a bag of rotten potatoes, he was pretty damn disgusting. He struggled in the hunter's grip, looking around the deserted cemetery in a desperate attempt to locate the rest of his nest.

Faith noticed his gaze and directed his attention back to his captors. "Ashes to ashes, bloodsucker. Your little friends? They're floatin' in the breeze or mixin' in with the worms. Take your pick. Sent 'em all packing to hell while you were having that little nap earlier. So . . . I'll ask you again – and notice, I'm asking nicely. What are you doing in New Orleans? Who's your boss?"

"I'm not telling you anything." The blond spit in her face, but Faith dodged aside, and the spittle landed harmlessly on the vampire's own chest.

"Right. Dean, get rid of his shoes. I'm feeling creative."

"Wait. What are you doing? Stop." The vampire's panic increased as Dean jerked his shoes off, baring a pair of extremely dirty black socks littered with holes.

The Slayer clicked the lighter again, bringing the flame to gently caress one of the vampire's big toes. "Dean, hold him down. What're you doing in New Orleans?"

"Nothing! I live here. I was buried here."

"Not quite good enough." Faith bathed the vampire' s toes in flames. The vampire groaned in pain.

"I mean it! Nothing brought me to New Orleans. I've always lived here." He moaned with relief as the fire was removed.

Moving the lighter to the other foot, the woman shook her head. "Still not good enough. Why didn't you and your friends check out before the hurricane? You had to know it was coming."

"We . . . were . . . security," panted the vampire, his eyes screwed tight, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead, clearly visible in the light of Dean's flashlight.

She brought the lighter closer to the sensitive tissue between his first two toes, until the fire was hungrily licking at the space there. "Security for what?"

"Ahhh! Stop that. Stop it! I don't know their name. One of the big houses in the French Quarter. Owners had to evacuate. Hired us to guard their valuables. We got hungry. Started looking for something to eat. That's why we're here. Please stop!"

Faith extinguished the flames. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No," the vampire gasped. His whole body spasmed as he attempted to reach down and cover his singed feet.

"Uh-uh. We're not quite finished yet. Keep him still, Dean." The hunter forced the vamp back down to the ground, pinning his shoulders to the moldy earth with both hands. "I got a few more questions for you." The Slayer flicked the lighter back on. The vampire's eyes widened in horror.

"Please, don't. Please."

"I don't really want to hurt you, anyway," she sing-songed. "I just need to know something, and then I promise we'll let you go."

"What . . . what do you want to know?"

"How many of you are there?"

"Just . . . just . . . just the seven of us."

Hunter and Slayer's eyes met above the head of their captive. Dean nodded briefly. They had been ambushed by seven vampires, six of whom now lay in scattered piles of ash all around.

"How did you get hooked up with this rich guy?"

"Huh?"

"How did you end up guarding this house?"

"Someone . . . talked to Chris . . . he was our leader. Gave us the job."

"Where's Chris now?" Faith had a pretty good idea, but she didn't fancy taking chances.

The vampire laughed hysterically. "You dusted him."

"Right, yeah. I did. This guy who hired Chris – you know his name?"

"No."

Faith brought the lighter closer to the vampire's singed feet. "You sure about that?"

"Yes! Yes! I never heard his name! Now, please, let me go."

"One last thing. Did any of the other rich folks hire vampires to guard their stuff?"

"A . . a few."

"How many?"

"I don't know! I don't know, okay? I don't know!" The vampire screamed when Faith prepared to light his feet on fire again. "I wasn't in charge. I didn't talk to the others. Five houses, six? I don't know!" He was sobbing, tears running down his face in terror.

"Thanks for your help, Slim." Finished, she drove a sharp-edged stake up through the vampire's fifth rib space and into his heart.

Faith and Dean rose to their feet as their captive exploded into dusty fragments. Brushing off his jeans, the hunter looked at his partner with resignation. "That makes three."

"Three vampire gangs in two nights, all with incredibly similar stories. Fat cats hiring vamps to protect their shiny stuff from the dreaded poor. Did they not know that the vamps were going to start eating people? Or did they not care?"

"Probably didn't care." Dean picked up his flashlight and turned it off. "Come on. Let's get back to camp and that dog of yours."

"People can be worse than monsters. You ever think about that?"

"Sometimes," he admitted, waiting until they were back in the car to share his big news. "Hey . . . did I tell you? I bummed two towels off one of the Guard boys today."

For the first time all day, a genuine smile lit up the Slayer's face. "You didn't."

"I did."

Already imagining a real shower with a real towel, Faith tossed her head back against the bench seat of the Impala, her smile widening. "I ever tell you that you're my hero?"

"My memory's crap." Her excitement was infectious, and he responded with a grin of his own. "Remind me?"

"Dean Winchester, you are a frigging hero."

 


	26. Rock You Like a Hurricane, pt 5

**October 18** **th,** **2005, Camp Premiere, St. Bernard Perish, Louisiana 6:00 a.m.**

"I'm hot-blooded! Check it and see! Got a fever of a hundred and three! C'mon, baby, can you do more than dance?"

There was not a cell in Faith's body that wanted to get out of bed. She was unprepared for another day of animal rescue followed by another night of searching for vampires. "Dean," she groaned, rolling over onto her right side and tugging the sleeping bag over her head "Turn off your alarm."

"I'm hot-blooded! Hot-blooded!" sang the alarm shrilly, and the hunter slept peacefully on.

Muttering a mixed assortment of her favorite profanities, Faith crawled out of her sleeping bag and stumbled around the tent until she found the phone and could turn off the infernal alarm. Dean had yet to move or so much as blink. She checked the time – it was barely pushing six a.m., so she could let him sleep in for another twenty minutes. It had been a rough twelve days, and they had been out on vampire duty 'til almost three the night before. She'd just take Buddy to the bathroom and grab a couple of breakfast MREs from the mess tent. Cut down on the amount of cranky Dean she'd have to deal with when he did wake up.

After a quick glance around the tent, it slowly sank into her sleep-muddled mind that Buddy was nowhere to be found, either curled up on the sleeping bags or beneath one of the cots. The two-inch thick salt line across the tent doorway was marred with paw prints. This would not be the first time that the beagle had snuck out to do his business while she and Dean were sleeping. Usually, he was back by the time she woke up, however.

The Slayer unzipped the flaps of the tent and stuck her head out. "Buddy! Come here, Buddy! It's breakfast time!"

When a couple minutes' calling did not produce the beagle, she returned inside and shook Dean by the shoulder. "Hey. Wake up. I need you."

"Wasss goin' on?" he slurred.

"Buddy's missing."

"He's probably going to the bathroom. What time is it?"

"Five past six."

"I'm gonna go back to sleep. Did you call him?"

"I did. Loud. He's not showing up, Dean."

"Okay." The hunter sat up, blinking the exhaustion from his eyes. "Where're my shoes?"

Faith passed over his weatherbeaten work boots. "You're gonna help me look for him?"

"Yeah." Dean shoved one foot into a boot and laced it on autopilot. "And then I'm going back to bed. But first, let's find your dog."

They divided the camp in half and walked through it calling for Buddy. Faith took the north end with the showers and mess tent and Dean the south end and the parking lot. Ten minutes later, they reconvened at their tent. Neither had met with success. There were no signs of Buddy. Any paw prints he might have left were covered up by the bootprints and tire tracks of a company of the National Guard that had arrived at half past five.

"Where could he have gotten to?"

"I'm sure he's fine, but I'll get Jim to help me canvass the parking lot. He might have decided to take an early morning nap beneath one of the cars and not have heard me. Why don't you check the trash area, see if he's looking for food out there? Okay?"

"Yeah. Meet back here in fifteen minutes?"

Dean was already halfway to Pastor Jim's tent, but he gave her a thumb's up over his shoulder. The Slayer headed back to the compost pile and the giant dumpster. She'd checked this area previously, but it wouldn't hurt to look again. Still, Faith couldn't shake the creeping feeling that something was wrong. The last few days, she had been waiting for something to happen. She was waiting for the levee to break.

_Buddy's gonna be just fine,_ she told herself forcefully, ducking around the giant dumpster to peer beneath it. No sleeping dog.  _You heard Dean. Buddy's gonna be just fine._

But when Pastor Jim appeared, six minutes later, his face a grey mask, and asked her to come with him, Faith couldn't stave off the sense of impending doom. She followed him to the outskirts of the parking lot, to an empty, dented black Humvee. They stepped behind the vehicle to find Dean, hands in his pockets, staring at an object on the ground.

Faith refused to look. Her eyes met Dean's in a silent plea. The hunter shook his head. She looked down.

There, lying on the asphalt beside the Humvee's right rear tire, was the broken body of her dog. Someone had gone to town, slashing the beagle's throat and belly, ripping out his entrails. The corpse was almost unrecognizable, except for the purple nylon collar on his neck. Patches of Buddy's white fur were stained bright red with his own blood. On the pavement below the dog's belly, written in thick, dark crimson letters, were the words "GO HOME SLAYER."

For a long moment, the Slayer stood, speechless and motionless. Her vision went red. The color drained from her face. Faith battled the tumult within: revulsion, fear, sorrow, and a boiling rage that scalded everything in its path. She silenced the emotions, banishing them. Finally, she spoke. "Jim. Can you go grab me a shovel? And a couple of towels? Or a sheet. Whatever you can find."

"Sure, Faith." Pastor Jim patted her tentatively on the arm. "I'm so sorry. I'll be right back."

"Make it two shovels," added Dean. Nodding in recognition of the request, the older man left, walking quickly back towards the camp.

"He was just a stupid dog." Faith knelt beside the corpse. Chunks of gravel pressed into the knees of her jeans. To her quiet satisfaction, neither her voice nor her hands trembled. She attempted to replace some of the dog's spilled intestines back inside his abdominal cavity. "Stay put," she muttered. "Stay put."

Dean looked on, his mind racing to make sense of what had happened. How had Buddy gotten loose? Had he slipped out to use the bathroom and been captured then? Had they known that Buddy belonged to the Slayer, or had he just been grabbed at random? Or had someone purposefully snuck into their tent and stolen the dog? If so, why hadn't they tried to kill either of the people in the tent?

Heedless of her observer, the woman continued her hopeless task, mumbling under her breath to the corpse at her knees. "Oh, Buddy. You silly boy. You shouldn't've picked me. You shoulda gone with someone else."

Jim returned with two shovels and an armful of the disposable polyester tablecloths from the mess tent. Conferring quietly, he and Dean decided on a place in the grass away from the parking lot to begin digging. Faith staggered to her feet, rusty hands outstretched. "I can do it."

"Nah." The hunters moved both shovels out of her reach, and Jim started walking to the chosen spot.

"Let us do it, Faith," Dean added in a soft voice. He wanted to touch her, to do something, but he had no idea if it would help or hurt. "You stay with Buddy, okay?"

"He was just a dumb dog," she repeated.

"I know." Torn, the hunter hesitated a moment longer. Then, wrapping his hand tighter about the handle of his shovel, he went to join Jim.

Alone with the accusing silence of the dead, Faith took one of the tablecloths and unfolded it. She slowly wrapped the beagle in one, then two, then three pale khaki tablecloths. Even then, he looked desolate and pathetic. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Spurred on by guilt, she gathered the pitiful bundle into her lap – Buddy weighed barely twenty-five pounds, tablecloths and all. The Slayer had never really cradled anything before. Not a doll or an infant or a lover. But the men were too busy digging the grave to watch her, and cradling Buddy felt like the right thing to do..

"This one's on me, little guy." Faith planted a kiss on the matted fur of the dead dog's skull. "I should never have let you come with me. This is all my damn fault."

After what felt like an agonizingly long time, but in the end was only fifteen minutes, the hunters finished and came back to her.

"Faith, would you like one of us to take him?" offered Pastor Jim.

"No. I'll . . . I'll get him." Faith swallowed the lump in her throat and gingerly got up. Holding her burden flat, she carried him to the grave, a waiting square hole three feet by three feet. She laid Buddy down gently and patted his head one last time. "Jim, shovel?"

He handed it across to her. Expressionless, the Slayer shoveled dirt back into the grave. She did not stop until the tablecloths were completely covered and the gaping hole in the earth had been filled. Then, she returned to the parking lot in search of a makeshift marker. She soon found a broken piece of concrete about the right size for a headstone. Placing it on top of the pile of earth, Faith stared at the grave to make sure the concrete was centered.

Satisfied, she sat on the grass and settled into a comfortable position, one hand resting lightly on the dark earth of the grave. Her nose was dripping, and she wiped it perfunctorily on her forearm. "Okay, boys. We got a minute of peace and quiet here before the civilians come looking for us. Let's get to work."

Dean stared at her in utter confusion. "Faith . . . what the . . . don't you need a minute, or, or something?"

Faith took a deep breath. She had managed to clear her mind, to push away feeling until nothing was left but pure purpose, sharp-edged as steel. "This sucks. And it's not going to stop sucking. But we can talk about that later. Look, we've been waiting for things to escalate for almost two weeks now. And it looks like the vampires finally tried to bring the fight to us. I wish they'd had the stones to come after  _me_ , not a dog, but they didn't. Dog's dead. Only thing we can do for him now is to clean this place out."

The pastor looked down at her worriedly. "Are you sure that it was a vampire?"

She nodded. "Buddy's throat wasn't slit. It was ripped out. Teeth."

Still trying to figure out all this, Dean frowned. "But if it was vamps, why didn't they come after us?"

"I dunno. Maybe the Vamp-Away charm I put on the tent kept them off. Maybe Buddy had already gone out by the time they showed up, and he was just convenient. I don't know."

"It's a little cunning for vampires, though isn't it? Usually they aren't quite this . . . intelligently sadistic?"

"They can be," Faith answered shortly. "Things I've seen . . . you wouldn't believe, Jim."

"I'll take your word for it. So . . . a city full of vampires, and three of us. I hate to say this, but I'm not as young as I used to be, and those are some pretty heavy odds."

Springing to her feet, the woman shrugged her shoulders. "Could be. I, uh, I'm gonna go call in some friends. They can be here by tonight."

"Faith . . . don't . . ." Dean closed his eyes wearily. He had a terrible feeling that he knew exactly what was coming.

"Who are you calling in?"

The Slayer smiled grimly. "You ever hear of a vampire called Angelus? Scourge of Europe? And his associate William the Bloody?"

The names obviously meant something to Jim, for his face paled. "You're joking," he said flatly, turning to the younger man for help. "She's joking, isn't she? Vampires? To fight vampires? It's crazy."

"Can't argue with you there." Dean glanced at the pitiful grave. It strengthened his resolve. "G-d, Faith. I hate your friends. But you're right," he said helplessly, "we can't do this by ourselves."

Faith let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. She had hoped that he would support her decision – not that either of them had much of a choice – but the uncertainty had remained. Vampires and hunters did not mix, and she knew that asking for her friends to get along would be asking for an awful lot. But Buddy was dead, and needs must.

The older hunter ran a hand through his thinning hair. "How long do we have until they get here?"

"They're out in Jackson. I asked them to start working their way here a few days ago. Guess they could get out here in three, four hours, but there's no point in them showing up before dusk. Not really that many sun-proof spots 'round here."

Dean's brow furrowed. When he spoke, he could not keep petulance from coloring his words. "I wish you woulda told me before you called them."

Criticism slid off Faith like water gliding over a duck's back. "You wouldn't have liked it, Dean. And it had to be done. So . . . Jim, where would you like to start?" The Slayer deferred to him momentarily as the oldest in the group.

"I reckon we've got the whole day, then, before your friends show up. Let's not waste time. I'll go talk to the sheriff, see who was on gate duty last night, find out if anything other than that transport came in. Dean?"

The younger hunter jerked his head sideways, in the direction of the bloody message on the asphalt. "I'll clean this mess up so no one sees it, then check in with the Guard boys. Maybe one of them saw Buddy last night or heard something. Whoever – whatever – went after him, they had to have done it between three this morning when we got in and five. That blood had been drying for at least an hour."

"Faith?"

Tearing her eyes away from the bloodstains on her jeans and her hands, the woman said, "Right. I'm gonna do some laundry – one of us has to be doing something normal. This place's got a lot of eyes, and we can't assume that all of them are friendly."

"So none of us are going to work today."

Jim sighed. "It'll be all right, Dean. Just tell them that an animal got Buddy and that you're both too shook up to go out with the volunteers today. No one's gonna begrudge you that – either of you."

"Awesome." That was not a conversation Dean was looking forward to. He checked his watch. "Well, it's almost seven. Guess we'd better get to it. Faith, you ready?"

Briefly, the Slayer clenched her hand into a fist. Her fingers drove through the loose dirt, curling all the way up, nails pressing into her palm. She tightened her grip and squeezed that handful of dirt, stopping just short of piercing the skin. "Shouldn't I have been crying hysterically or something?"

"Not everybody cries. Here." Reaching down, the hunter pulled her to her feet. "C'mon. Let's go."

His arm around her shoulders, they walked back to the main camp, the perfect picture of a distraught couple. It was time to get to work.

* * *

The day passed more quickly than Dean would have liked. Secretly, he dreaded nightfall. While he had met Faith's fanged associates once or twice, he had never worked a job with them before. And the only time he had interacted with her other Sunnydale so-called friends, it had ended with a confrontation over the barrel of his pistol and three months' radio silence.

Action was the best solution for worry, so he drowned his anxiety in activity. After he made excuses to both their work crews and she changed out of her bloodstained jeans, Dean and Faith gathered their dirty clothes. They filled up large buckets of water from the outdoor cistern that fed the showers and the mess tent and carried them to the edge of the camp. It was a poor commentary on his life that hand-washing his underwear next to a pretty girl was the most normal thing he'd done all day.

Nothing today was simply for show, and so it proved with the laundry. Dean took care to empty the dirty wash water onto the warning message at the end of the parking lot. The streams of water might not have been high enough pressure to completely clear the blood away, but they diluted and smeared it enough that it became illegible. He didn't need people in the camp questioning their story of Buddy's death or wondering what a Slayer was.

Clothes clean – cleaner – cleanish, they stretched a fifteen foot length of rope from the top of their tent to that of their neighbor's and spread things out to dry on the improvised clothesline. Dean left to go question his Guard acquaintances who had stayed in camp that day. Ferreting out information took finesse. Apart from inquiring if anyone had seen Buddy loose last night, he couldn't ask his questions straight out. Instead, he had to come at them sideways and from weird angles.

Eventually, he was forced to accept a disappointing lack of results. No one had seen anything; most of them had been off-duty and asleep last night. But they promised to ask around for him.

Dean found Faith sitting on a bucket in the grass behind their tent, a Bowie knife and a foot-long piece of tree branch in her hands. Half a dozen fallen limbs were piled on her left side, and a stack of completed stakes was steadily growing on her right. A map of New Orleans and its cemeteries, carefully annotated in thin black ink, lay spread open on the ground in front of her. He recognized it instantly as their patrol record.

"Want a hand?" he offered.

"Nah." The Slayer shook her head. Her knife scraped along the stake in her hands with easy, smooth strokes, narrowing the end to a lethally sharp point. "I've got this. You should get some sleep. It's gonna be a long night."

"What about you?"

She smiled faintly. "I'll sleep in a bit. Just want to get this finished first. Before it gets too much later and the crews come back. Any news?"

"Nope." He caught sight of a piece of wood that was different from the rest – a section of plank roughly ten inches square and two inches thick. "Mind if I use that?"

"Go ahead."

The hunter took a seat and pulled his own knife out of his jacket. He would have preferred to do this with better tools, but he could make do. "What's your plan for tonight?" he asked innocently, setting to work on the plank.

Faith dropped the sharpened stake onto her pile and lifted another tree branch. She broke the branch across her knee into shorter, manageable pieces and started filing the ends. A stake didn't need to be aerodynamic perfection. It just had to be pointy. And if it didn't give you splinters, that was a definite plus.

Wiping the sweat off her forehead, she thought out loud. "We've been doing this for twelve days. Covered twenty-something boneyards, most of them at least twice. Dusted thirty or forty vamps, all of 'em bottom-feeders, none of 'em big fish. Heard the same story half a dozen times – vampires hired to babysit fat cats' places during Katrina. Hired by some unknown middle man. Last night, we checked out five different cemeteries – all quiet, no vamps. And then, this morning . . . I'm starting to draw some conclusions here."

"Yeah?" When dealing with vampires, Faith took point. And when they were on one of his cases, Dean called the shots. It was a tacit rule in their relationship, along with 'Don't use all the hot water' and 'Never bring a hook-up back to the hotel room.'

Reaching for another prospective stake, the Slayer frowned. "It feels like they're just throwing crap at us. I dunno, maybe to distract us or something. Or maybe we were actually getting close . . . Either way, I'm tired of this sh-t. Reckon it's about time we stop dealing with henchvamps. Time to figure out who the real boss is around here."

"And how're we gonna do that?"

"I've got a few ideas . . ." Faith's voice trailed away as she got a closer look at Dean's current project. "What are you . . ."

Dean brushed the wood shavings off the plank in his lap to reveal the letters carved there: B-u-d-d-y. He dug in his pocket for a lighter and held it to the wood, charring each letter slowly to a dark, burnt black. "Figured this was better than a chunk of concrete."

The Slayer turned away, fixating on the next length of wood, the next stake. "Thanks," she said after a minute, when she could trust her voice. It was surprisingly difficult to keep her face from crumbling into a zillion shattered pieces. The man's hand rested on her knee for a brief second, its presence warming even through the rough cotton of her jeans.

"We'll get 'em," the hunter promised as he finished burning the 'y.' "Whatever bastards did this, we'll get 'em." He stood, grave marker in hand. "I'm gonna go set this up and get some shut-eye. See you in a bit."

She listened to his footsteps fade, her hands moving automatically to finish another stake. A few tears trailed down her face and neck. They burned cold as ice.

"I'm gonna fix this," she swore to the empty air. "It's gonna be okay. I'm gonna fix this."

 


	27. Rock You Like a Hurricane, pt 6

**October 18th, 2005, Camp Premiere, St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana, 7:30 p.m.**

Jim Murphy could honestly say that he had never loitered before. At least not in the last thirty years of being a preacher. Pastors didn't loiter. Occasionally, they waited to speak to a wayward or concerned member of the congregation. They might even linger, if circumstances warranted lingering. But they never, ever loitered.

Tonight, Jim found himself breaking old habits and loitering by the guard post at the entrance to Camp Premiere. After spending a month on the relief effort, he knew all the guys working security and could successfully mask the reason behind his loitering with small talk and inquiries about traffic and newcomers the last couple of days. No one needed to know that he was waiting for two infamous vampires to arrive.

Life was a funny thing, the pastor reflected, calling a hello to Carl Pederson, the deputy who was coming on shift. Unlike John and his boys, Jim never considered his life as centered around being a hunter. He was a preacher. His calling was to fight evil, wherever he found it. Sometimes, that evil was horribly human – rape, abuse, deceit, cruelty, destruction. And sometimes, that evil had a monstrous manifestation, and it was time to reach for the salt, the silver, or the Rituale Romanum.

He could handle whatever he needed to – always could, always had – but Jim secretly would have preferred not to be doing this. He wasn't a fan of vampires.

"Evening, Jim." Carl, a deputy sheriff from out Baton Rouge way, was unsurprised to see the pastor waiting for him. It had been all around the camp, albeit whispered in hushed voices. Someone had done in that little beagle that Jim's second cousin and his girlfriend had adopted. "Reckon you heard I was on duty last night. Midnight to eight."

"That obvious, am I?" Leaning against the tall chain-link fence surrounding the compound, the older man folded his arms across his stomach. "And here I thought we were being discreet."

With a shrug, Carl joined him. "You'd be amazed how fast and accurate the grapevine is in Premiere. So . . . how can I help?"

Jim offered the other man a friendly smile. "What's the grapevine been saying?" he asked, relaxed.

"You and that Dean kid have been all over camp, asking if anyone heard or saw something unusual last night, or if anyone came in at weird hours. Funny, that last bit."

"Hmm?"

"The only people who come in at weird hours are your cousin and his girlfriend. They're always leaving early in the evening and coming back in the middle of the night. What's the girl's name, again?"

"Faith."

"Right, Faith. Dean and Faith. Good names. They seem like good kids. But what are they doing out in the middle of the night? There's nothing out there – the roads aren't even safe to drive on, half the time."

"Huh. I had no idea they were doing that," Jim lied easily. "I'll have to check in with Dean, see what's going on. Still, I doubt that had anything to do with their beagle."

"You're probably right. Shame, really. That was one cute dog. So you wanted to know if anyone came in last night?"

"If you could tell me, I'd sure appreciate it. We're pretty convinced that it was an animal – maybe a bigger dog, but if somebody got in late, they might have still been up and getting settled when it happened. Maybe they heard something."

Carl hesitated, rubbing his ginger stubble thoughtfully. Finally, he said, "None of this is classified, so I don't mind telling you. Besides Dean and Faith, we had a couple of private security guys come in around one a.m. and the supply truck for the Guard around five."

"Thanks, Carl. Did anybody leave suddenly last night?"

"Nah. Just your two around ten. The security guys left at seven this morning, but they usually don't spend more than five or six hours here, day or night."

The pastor pursued a gut feeling. "Is it usual for them to come at night?"

"There's always someone awake at the command post. We see more of the private guys during the day, but it's fairly common for them to show up at night, too. See – here comes another group of them right now."

A shiny black SUV was approaching the gate, its sides miraculously dirt and dust free. Carl stepped away from the fence. The SUV slowed to a halt as he walked over to the driver's window. The window rolled down, and a pale man with an impressive jawline and a broad forehead leaned out. He held an open wallet in his left hand, displaying his credentials.

"We're with Blackwater Security." The man's voice carried to the other side of the fence, where Jim loitered.

The sheriff examined the man's ID and then passed the wallet back. "Haven't seen you before," he said conversationally. "You new?"

The driver of the SUV smiled, showing an impressive expanse of large, white teeth. "Just got into town."

"Central command's straight ahead. Follow this road about a quarter mile, and you'll find it."

"Thank you." The driver flipped his wallet shut, and his window slowly rolled itself up. The black Suburban drove smoothly on.

Moments later, the cell phone in Jim's pocket began ringing shrilly. Jim bid Carl a quick goodnight and hurried back down the path towards the main camp, holding off on answering the phone until he was out of earshot.

"Hello?"

"They just got through the checkpoint." The Slayer was eager, more enthusiastic than he had ever heard her. "I told them where to park the car. They're meeting me at the Impala. It's go-time."

* * *

"Thanks for coming, guys." One hip balanced against the bumper of a Humvee, Faith watched her friends pile out of their vehicle. They were dressed head-to-toe in black: no-nonsense combat boots, canvas trousers with six thousand pockets, shiny Underarmor t-shirts. "Sorry about all the cloak and dagger business. How was Jackson?"

"Scared." Angel opened the rear door of the SUV. He leaned into the backseat and withdrew a heavy plastic shopping bag. As he moved, his tight black muscle shirt rippled across his shoulders and back. Faith took a second to appreciate the view.

"Things bad in Jackson?"

The brunette vampire glanced around the parking lot, his keen eyes observing all the craters and potholes, even in the dark. "Not as bad as here. Still, destruction like this always attracts scavengers. Here. I brought the stuff you asked for." He handed her the plastic bag, holding her gaze. "It's good to see you."

"You too." Distracted by her presents, Faith investigated the bag's contents: a box of regular tampons, two packages of peanut butter M&M's, a 24 oz purple gatorade, some ibuprofen, and a thing of pizza-flavored Pringles. She looked up, smiling. "Thanks, boys. Kinda hard to find this stuff around here."

"No problem."

"You should have seen all the looks we got at the check-out counter," Spike snickered.

"They ask you who it was for?"

"I told 'em that Hair Gel here got nosebleeds."

"That right, big guy?"

"Okay, okay. I get it. Let's all make fun of the guy who's doing the right thing. Very mature, you two." Angel's comically exaggerated eye-roll removed any potential sting from his words.

Faith and Spike exchanged smug glances. "Can't blame us, Peaches," the younger vampire drawled. "You just . . . engender this in us."

"You set yourself up for it so nicely."

"I mean, honestly . . . don't you ever get tired of taking yourself so seriously? All Mr. Gloom-and-Doom-and-Destiny."

"Spike, shut up."

Making a pretense of checking her watch, the Slayer faked a double-take. "Two minutes. We made it two minutes before he told one of us to shut up. That's a new best."

"Or worst," grumbled Angel under his breath, still refusing to rise to the bait. "Don't we have an evil horde of vampires to fight off or something? Faith, where's that hunter friend of yours?"

"He's checking in with his dad."

The vampire allowed his raised eyebrow to speak volumes for him.

"Dude, chill. His dad's a hunter, too – working a string of disappearances in California. They check in on each other at least once a day. I think it's kinda nice," she added as the vampires continued to regard her skeptically. "Whatever."

She unfolded a large map of New Orleans and spread it across the hood of the Humvee. Clicking on her flashlight, Faith illuminated the carefully annotated map, its hand-drawn legend in the upper left corner of the page.

"What's this?" Spike leaned in closer to peer at the cramped handwriting. "What's red mean?"

Faith tapped a single finger on the legend. "Didn't your mother teach you how to read?"

"I thought we talked about this," said Angel teasingly. "He doesn't like mentions of his mother."

"Yeah, not all of us are quite as proud of eating our parents as Angelfish here. Isn't that right, Captain Forehead?"

"I'm beginning to realize why Buffy doesn't like the two of you working together," Faith observed drily.

Like always, the B-word dampened the mood like a bucket of cold water to the face. Levity draining from their eyes, both vampires frowned.

"Low blow, Slayerhead," commented Spike, peering intently at the map legend. Red marked exsanguinated bodies, with asterisks for animals and triangles for humans. Each cemetery was labeled and numbered in black ink. Thin dotted lines connected certain cemeteries with rich neighborhoods in other parts of town. Faith withdrew a stack of notes from her backpack and passed them to Angel.

"Here's all the details we've figured out so far. Which vamps we've found in which graveyard, any intelligence we got from them – not much of that, unfortunately. They all seem to be young and stupid . . . or old and stupid. Lots of stupid."

Angel flicked through the pages, speed-reading. "This seems pretty thorough. Who came up with the symbols?"

"That would be me." Dean emerged from the darkness on the other side of the Humvee, carrying a paper plate laden with a misshapen hamburger. He addressed Faith. "Ran into the twins on my way across camp. They're super worried about you, asked me to make sure you ate this."

"Thanks." She reached for the hamburger. Chomping down, she took a giant bite out of one side. "Huh. This isn't half bad."

"Everyone's getting better at cooking over the fire, I guess. Spike. Angel." The hunter nodded briefly in each of their directions. He joined the group, standing in the back. Dean fought the urge to fold his arms over his chest or do something else defensive. "What did I miss?"

Stepping to the side, the blond vampire examined the other half of the map. "Angel here was just admiring your work."

"It's fairly uncluttered," Angel said, sounding embarrassed. He looked back down at Faith's notes. "Where do you want us to start? Odd Fellows' Rest? St. Louis Number Three? Cypress Grove?"

The Slayer shook her head decisively. "Uh-uh." Tugging her notes free, she turned to the last page. The words 'Now What?' were written in jagged lettering across the top. Angel skimmed the bulleted list.

He tutted, a rueful noise. "I thought it might come to this." Something else lurked beneath his resignation. A hint of anticipation, ruthless and silvery cool as moonlight on icy water.

The Slayer shuddered, masking it as a simple stretch. It was nothing. Just the usual creeps she got when anyone stared at her too long. She checked over her shoulder, but Dean wasn't watching her. His narrowed gaze was focused solely on Angel.

Spike scented something. His head instinctively swung around to face Angel, and his piercing blue eyes bored into the older vampire's skull. Ahh. Faith's suspicions were confirmed. Spike had heard it, too. Shades of Angelus. "Come to what?"

Smiling in a way that Angelus' soulful counterpart rarely did, the Scourge of Europe shifted easily into an Irish brogue that set Faith's teeth on edge. "William, my boy, it's been an awful long time since we had any fun."

Unimpressed, Spike continued his one-sided staring contest. "Drop it, Angel. That accent is more tired than an two-dollar whore on a Sunday morning."

Dean sniggered in the background. The others said nothing.

"I need you to find out who the ringleader of all this crap is," Faith continued. "Cuz we've been all over this city, and we've been hitting dead ends every night the last three nights. It's like they've finally gotten smart enough to avoid us. And then someone killed my dog this morning and left a message just for me."

"You didn't tell me you had a dog." Angel looked at her with concern.

"It was a new thing," she said dismissively. "Not the point. Point is, I need information. Who's calling the shots here, where he's shacked up. Stuff I can't figure out by myself. Not in time, anyway. If they're getting bold enough to kill inside the camp, there's quite the buffet here for them to chow down on. And look at me. Really look at me. Do I look good to you?"

When the vampires wisely did not respond, she answered her own question. "No, I don't. I look like crap. Dean and I both look like crap. I haven't had a decent shower in two weeks, and I'm getting like four hours of sleep at night, and this burn on my arm itches like hell, and someone just killed my dog. I'm pissed. I am frakking done with trying to do this the smart way. We find those bastards, we  _incinerate_  them. But I'm gonna need your help to find them."

Her tirade was met by a minute of long silence. Ultimately, it was Spike who spoke.

"Good thing we came prepared, then. With your stories of vamps as security, we talked to a couple people at Wolfram and Hart who are still scared of us. Pretended Angel here had gone darkside and convinced me to join him. Idiots bit. Hook, line, and sinker. They haven't heard any names, but about a month ago, there was a real push for security forces a little sturdier than your average human down in New Orleans. We professed enthusiasm, and they lined us up quick. Got us some real Blackwater IDs, the proper gear, everything."

"Except the guns," interjected Angel. It had been one of Buffy's rules. Perhaps now the only one of her rules that he still adhered to.

"Yeah, except the guns. But I've got a taser," Spike added with a grin. "We'll find your ringleader, pet. Just might take a night or two."

"Speaking of which . . ." Turning away from the group, Angel opened the hatch at the back of his SUV and lifted out a small red cooler. "Can you hold onto this? It'd blow our cover."

"Sure." Dean's eyes met the vampire's in a silent challenge as the ice chest was passed over. Everyone knew it was filled with blood. Most likely human. "You really think you can find their Court of Miracles or whatever?"

Angel shut the back of the suburban with unnecessary force.

"Word to the wise, Peaches over here is a bit . . . touchy when it comes to Gypsies. You see, once upon a time, they made him impoten –"

"Shut up, Spike." This time, the older vampire was mildly peeved.

"And now we're back to being one fantastically dysfunctional family." Spike merrily ignored his grandsire's irritated snarl. "Cool it, Peaches. Faith, why don't you and the boy try to get some shut-eye tonight? We'll report back tomorrow."

"The boy has other ideas." Dean maintained his composure. "Marie Laveau, famous voodoo priestess. Her followers called her the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. Died in 1881. Buried here." He indicated the St. Louis No. 1 Cemetery on the map.

"No vamp activity here." The hunter traced a circle on the map around the cemetery, the only area in the center of the city that was free of red or black annotations. "Legend has it that she continues to grant petitioners wishes. Faith and I can check it out tonight. If the legend's right, if she's still around, she might know something."

"You're going to go talk to the ghost of a voodoo priestess?"

The question had been neutral, but still Faith felt honor-bound to jump to Dean's defense. Sure, she wouldn't have minded a night off, but she didn't think she'd be able to sleep anyway. Besides, the more information they had, the sooner they could act. "Why not?"

"Be careful. Please."

"I always am," Faith swore with a teasing smile.

Angel had to snort at such a bald-faced lie. "Right." He turned to Spike. "Come on. Let's go do some investigating."

Slayer and hunter waited for the vampires and their black suburban to drive away before shouldering the ice chest and the supplies. If they took them to the tent now, they would only get caught by Lana and Dana. Instead, they shoved the bags into the back floorboard of the Impala.

Half an hour's fast driving later, they pulled up outside St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. While Faith checked that all the car doors were locked, Dean popped the trunk and lifted the false bottom to stare at his weapons cache.

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, the hunter contemplated his options. He looked to his partner, his eyes lingering on the turquoise and silver cross half-hidden by the neckline of her T-shirt. "What've you got in your bag?"

"Fifteen stakes, the crossbow bolts, a couple of silver knives, bottle of holy water, box of matches, some salt."

Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Well," he said at length, "we're just gonna have to count on Marie being a ghost." Machete in hand, he slung his military surplus duffel bag over one shoulder and waited for her to load her crossbow. "Come on. Let's go find ourselves a voodoo queen."

They'd visited this cemetery twice before in the last twelve days. Strolling unconcernedly its perimeter of six-foot plastered white concrete, he led the way to a side gate. An ancient yale padlock secured the heavy wooden door.

Carefully listening for any sounds of footsteps, the Slayer opened a thin leather wallet containing a set of lock picks. Another posthumous gift from Wesley. Lock-picking had never really been Faith's style; she tended to excel in the breaking part of breaking and entering. For the last six months or so, however, she had been attempting to learn how to be subtle, with varying success.

"Relax," whispered Dean from the corner of his mouth when her second attempt failed. Faith hissed something profane, but he was unfazed. "You did it three nights ago. You can do it now."

She didn't have the energy to snap back with a snarky retort. It had been a hellish morning, followed by an afternoon nap that left her feeling more hung-over than ten shots of absinthe. Not that she'd ever do the absinthe again. That had been Buffy's idea, way back after the destruction SunnyD. Or maybe that snippy girlfriend of Willow's. The identity of the absinthe instigator, along with the other details of that particular night, was lost for good.

On the fourth try, the lock clicked open softly. She straightened from her crouch, replacing the lock picks in their case. Quietly, she popped the open lock off of the gate and camouflaged it in the tall grass beside the door hinges. Dean clasped her shoulder briefly, and they slipped inside the gate.

"Which grave is it?" Faith wondered as they picked their way through the apocalyptic cemetery. By now, her feet knew the feel of New Orleans' ground into her bones. She watched where she was going – it would be catastrophic not to – but she could tell from the springiness or lack thereof whether it was safe to put her full weight on each foot.

"Big white catacomb, southeast corner."

"When did you find all this out?"

"I was glancing through the map while you were asleep, and that's when I noticed the lack of unfriendlies around this places. So I went to the computer pod to do some last minute research."

"Mmm." Faith paused, turning her head from side to side to survey the darkened cemetery. It was almost the new moon, and the only light visible was the sterile yellow electricity emanating from Dean's flashlight. Well . . . her flashlight, really.

They had instituted a new rule the week before: whosoever held the crossbow did not also hold the flashlight. She'd accidentally dropped his favorite one, a beat-up red Maglite that had been a gift from his little brother. In Faith's defense, she was frenziedly trying to reload in the middle of a vampire ambush. The next evening, they went back and found it, luckily undamaged. Still, ever since then, if she brought her crossbow, she let him carry the flashlight.

Satisfied with the quiet, she moved forward, following Dean across the cracked concrete pathways. "What's the ritual like?"

"You draw an 'X' on the tomb, turn around three times, knock on the X, and yell out your wish. If it works out, you have to come back to the grave, circle your specific mark, and leave an offering."

"What are you supposed to draw with? Charcoal, chalk, blood?"

"The websites didn't specify. I think anything would work, really. Just so long as the X lasts."

"Huh. What are we going to wish for? Or did you have some kind of summoning in mind?"

"Figured no improvising tonight. If Marie Laveau is still hanging around, granting wishes, I don't fancy accidentally setting her off. From what I read, she had crazy levels of power when she was alive. Here we go."

Halting in front of a moderate sized tomb, Dean shone his flashlight along the sides. Scribbled X's of various colors and sizes adorned the dingy plastered walls. Once upon a time, the tomb had probably been white. There was an inscription, set in a marble stone at the feet of the tomb, but a century of Louisiana weather had eroded them into illegibility. A black plaque with brass lettering beside the doors of the catacomb declared it to be the resting place of one Marie Laveau.

"Jackpot."

Some time was required to sort themselves out. Epicenter of vampire-less activity or no, somebody had to be on fang duty while the other person communed with the spirit of the voodoo priestess. Just in case. They were getting to be pretty good at just-in-case's, Faith reflected, sprinkling a thick layer of salt on the muddy ground to make a circle around the two of them.

Dean relinquished the flashlight, and she tucked it into her armpit, pinioned between her ribs and her upper arm. When it was secured, she tiled the beam slightly downwards to give him all the light he needed. The man rummaged in his duffel and exchanged his machete for a tire iron. Uncapping a fine-point black sharpie, the hunter walked forwards. Tension coiling up in his insides, he raised his hand to make the X.

Hands steady, the hunter drew a small black X on the west side of the tomb, then turned in a tight circle three times. "One, two, three," he counted out loud, for form's sake. He knocked sharply on his X a single time, hard enough to bruise his knuckles. The noise echoed in the empty graveyard, a booming rattle like musket fire.

"I wish to speak with Marie Laveau, voodoo priestess of New Orleans!"

Careful not to jar the flashlight, the Slayer glanced around. That knock had been loud; this shout was almost deafening. Faith tightened her grip on the crossbow. If anybody were within earshot, they'd be coming at a run, double quick.

Dean quickly stepped back into the salt circle. He swung the tire iron in a neat arc, feigning unconcern.

"What now?" Someday maybe she'd be old enough and disciplined enough not to ask these questions. But tonight the Slayer couldn't help herself.

The tire iron stopped mid-arc. Dean grinned, as impatient for action as she was. "We wait."

They didn't have to wait long. No sooner had the words left his mouth than a harsh wind blew in, an icy gust that left both of them shivering. The wind plucked at Faith's hair, yanking it free from its ponytail until it whipped her in the face. The air coalesced in the path of the flashlight, swirling itself into the figure of a woman clothed in frosty white. Dark night remained where her hands and face should have been. She stood inches from the edge of the salt circle, and the frosty air around her empty face tilted from side to side.

"You wished to speak with me." The voice of the apparition was deep. She spoke slowly, articulating each syllable with a dreadful precision. Her words were careful, almost studied, as if the modern English did not come naturally.

"Er – yes," said Dean. The wind abated slightly.

"A rather unique request. I find myself curious. Speak."

To be honest, he had not expected the ghost to respond, and Dean's silver tongue failed. He stumbled mentally and fell back onto old habits. "Ma'am, do you mind if we ask you a few questions?"

Faith giggled hysterically behind him. A cold gust picked up, slamming into them and teasing apart the edges of the salt circle. Marie Laveau was not amused.

"What he means is, er," she struggled to get her inappropriate hilarity under control before the protection of the salt was lost. "I'm a Vampire Slayer, ma'am."

The apparition turned, and the gust stilled. Faith fidgeted beneath the intense sensation of scrutiny that followed.

"I have heard of Slayers," responded the voice at last. "Say on."

"There was a hurricane a few weeks ago," Dean resumed his part of the conversation.

"I am aware," said Marie Laveau drily.

"Afterwards . . . Since then, there have been vampires running unchecked in this city – in your city."

"Children of the night . . ." The apparition sounded thoughtful. "I have nothing to do with them, neither in life, nor in death. Why have you come to me?"

"The vampires avoided your tomb and the area around it. We were wondering – hoping – that perhaps you might know something."

"You are not believers in voodoo," remarked the voice bitterly. The night grew colder. "You seek to use me as one of your informants. That is not very respectful."

"Maybe so, but vampires are killing your believers. If no one stops them, they could destroy all of New Orleans." It was an exaggeration, but Dean was running out of options.

This thought gave the apparition pause. "I know nothing of vampires," it remarked at length, once again speaking with that neutral, odd exactness. "Their petty destruction is of little interest to me. I cannot help you."

"But – "

"Do not trouble me again."

The wind blew fiercely, vanishing the figure of Marie Laveau until nothing but darkness remained. Then, even the wind itself dissipated.

Faith was the first to speak. "I'm freezing."

Disappointed, Dean jerked his eyes away from the spot where the spirit had been. "Let's go." Still holding onto his tire iron, he stepped outside of the salt circle. The hunter hurriedly circled their X and removed a minibar-sized bottle of whiskey from his duffel – the last of his stash. By placing it on the ground near Marie's nameplate, he completed the ritual.

On the return trip through the graveyard, hunter and Slayer dodged uprooted trees and headstones with practiced ease. The postern gate had not been disturbed, and Faith locked it behind them. It was one thing for them to be sneaking into cemeteries. Quite another if civilians started doing it.

Only when they reached the relative safety of the Impala did either of them relax. Dean tossed his bag into the backseat and slid behind the wheel. He waited for Faith to unstring the crossbow before starting the ignition. Backing out onto the street, the man checked the dashboard clock.

"It's pushing ten. How do you think Angel and Spike are doing?"

"They'll get the job done. They always do . . . Hey, when we get out of here, can we go to a real hotel? One with a pool and free breakfast and everything?"

"As long as you're paying."

"What – Hector Aframian can't splurge once in a while?"

Dean smiled at the mention of his latest alias. "Fine. Tell you what – when we get out of this, I'll take you dancing at a real club. Your pick."

This offer was too good to pass up. "Promise?"

"Promise."

 


	28. Rock You Like a Hurricane, pt 7

**October 18th, 2005, New Orleans, Louisiana, 9:30 p.m.**

"Faith seems happy." Angel managed to last an grand total of twenty-four minutes after leaving Camp Premiere before voicing this opinion.

"Mmm." There was no point in encouraging him. Instead, Spike peered more closely at the map of New Orleans spread across his knees. One pale finger followed his trail of thought as it skipped from neighborhood to neighborhood. "We need a lair."

"Not another warehouse." The last time, with Dru, being at the warehouse had ended in flames. And exploding demon bits. And a Slayer invasion.

A mutual glance was all that was necessary to remind Spike of this. "Mansion, maybe?" the blond suggested.

Hmm. Angel pondered. Mansions tended to work out nicely. Except for that time when Buffy gutted him and sent him straight to Hell. He was starting to sense a Slayer theme here. Driven by the need to get his mind away from memories of a certain blonde, the older vampire returned to his previous brown study. "Why do you think it took Faith so long to call us in?"

"Leave it, Peaches. Girl's allowed to make new friends."

"I know that, Spike," Angel said irritably. "I'm not jealous. It's just . . . hunters can be a bit unstable. I'm concerned."

Foregoing the obvious rejoinder that Faith was the queen of unstable and that Angel himself tended to experience more mid-existence crises in a week than a crisis support call center did in a year, Spike drew the conversation back on topic. "Mansion. Where?"

After some discussion, the vampires concluded that if they were going to set up shop, they needed to be in the French Quarter. In all of New Orleans, it was the sole neighborhood that would best suit Angelus' flair for the dramatic. Angel drove efficiently through the post-apocalyptic streets, dodging potholes the size of a golden retriever without blinking an eye. Of course, some of that could have been attributed to the fact that vampires, unlike humans, didn't actually need to blink.

Due to its elevation, the French Quarter had luckily been spared the great flooding that occurred in other parts of the city. Still, Spike and Angel were disappointed by the number of abandoned buildings that had been obvious tourist traps. While those would have once been great places to pick up a two-legged Happy Meal, now they stood empty and desolate and lowered the super secret lair value of the entire district.

Undaunted, the vampires continued driving, eyes peeled for something appropriate to their status. Although this was merely a ruse, they were going to make it as convincing as possible. And it felt nostalgic, entering a new city and searching for a place to set up shop. Even if they would never say it out loud, the feeling of 'remember when' loomed in their minds, and every time their gazes crossed, it was communicated.

At length, they turned right onto Royal Street. Spike saw the building first – a small hotel, in a Victorian style, a faded yellow stucco building with bright white columns supporting the large front porch, a series of peaked gables on the upper floor, and a castle-like turret on the right side of the building. Wordlessly, he grabbed Angel's arm, tugging at it like an over-excited child. Angel braked and peered out the window.

"Not quite a mansion," Spike observed, continuing his running commentary of all the prospective locations they had so far inspected. "But it could do."

The older vampire navigated around the fallen-down sign blocking the hotel driveway and parked the SUV close to the front door. Spike hopped out and bent down to turn over the sign, which bore the legend 'The Cornstalk Hotel' in faded gold lettering. Looking up from his crouch, he nodded in satisfaction.

Angel saw the movement. "Okay. Let's check it out."

Because the Cornstalk was both a hotel and abandoned, the vampires simply kicked the back door in without any preamble. If they liked the place enough to stay, they'd put the door up again. If not, a broken door was still the least of the owner's worries, wherever they were.

The hotel was as glamorous on the inside as it had been on the outside. Hardwood floors, a large sweeping staircase up to the second floor, and high vaulted ceilings in nearly every room. The place had been modernized quite well, and if the crystal chandeliers and antique mirrors in each bedroom, the hallways, and even the bathrooms was a bit much for Angel's somber taste, at least the furniture was of a suitable dark wood and appeared to be undamaged by the storm.

Finishing his tour of the upstairs, Angel met Spike halfway down the grand staircase. The younger vampire had managed to break into the kitchen's liquor cabinet already and was carrying a bottle of bourbon in each hand. Offering one to his grandsire, Spike sat on the stairway carpet and removed a flask from his back pocket. Amused, Angel took a seat beside him and watched as Spike refilled his flask.

"We should drink in celebration."

"Of what?" But Angel was already at work unscrewing the cap on the alcohol. He lifted the amber liquid to his lips and drank, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing up and down with each swallow. Three sips was all he would allow himself. Their work for the evening was far from over.

Spike grinned, an effervescent light in his blue eyes visible even in the dark. "Step one, complete. The order of Aurelius is back in business."

Sometimes, in all his brooding and world-weariness, Angel forgot that his time as Angelus, while drenched in an ocean of blood, had not been without its - for lack of a better word -  _human_  comforts. The camaraderie, the kinship, the unity – the vampire with a soul missed those. And although Spike was much as he had ever been, purposefully and continually advancing his eternal campaign to be the most annoying creature of his acquaintance, Angel would be lying if he called the younger vampire unwelcome.

Replacing the cap on his bourbon, Angel smiled to match the blond. He chuckled, low in his throat, remembering.

"Boxer Rebellion?" asked Spike, taking a long pull from his own bottle.

"Mmm."

They sat in silence, lost in memories of fire and violence. Angel returned to the present first, rising to his feet and extending a hand to Spike. "Come on. We'd better unload the car."

Together, the vampires worked quickly to empty the back of the SUV. Besides the ice chest of blood left with Faith, they each had another cooler and a small suitcase with them. Carrying the coolers and suitcases up the grand stairs, they selected adjacent bedrooms with heavy curtains to protect from the sun and large picture windows in case the need for a hasty exit ever arose. Satisfied with their handiwork, they exited out the back door, propping it up behind them to mask its broken status.

Back in the suburban, Spike flicked on the overhead light in order to read the fine print on Faith's map more easily. "Where to next?"

Angel buckled his seatbelt. He'd picked up the habit somewhere around the time when cars were invented. Despite knowing that the seatbelt was , he had never quite been able to kick it. "Let me see?" He leaned in until his shoulder brushed Spike's and their skulls almost collided. "Here." The brunette indicated the Masonic Cemetery, where Faith had recorded three separate fang altercations. "We need flunkies."

* * *

The flunky hunt proved unsuccessful. Spike and Angel checked seven different cemeteries, but the only signs of vampiric activity were themselves. Around six a.m. the next morning, they returned to the Cornstalk for a quick snack. The two sat in the hotel's renovated kitchen and moodily downed a couple of units of O+ in silence. In preparation for their roles as evil overlords, they had stolen the blood from a community hospital in Jackson. All O, either positive or negative. Angel's conscience prevented him from taking anything rarer.

When they finished drinking, Angel gave Faith a quick call. She answered the phone groggily, and for a moment, he felt guilty. The Slayer assured him that she had actually gotten eight hours of sleep and it was okay. Somewhat mollified, Angel reported on their progress. In turn, Faith explained about Marie Laveau. She promised to do further canvassing for blood-drained animals and hung up.

With the sun about to rise, the vampires discussed the next step of their plan. To stay at the hotel and sleep or to hit the sewers and do some exploring, that was the question. Spike made the point that New Orleans' sewers were likely to be one of the most damaged parts of the city and that mapping them out for loci of vampire transit could be dangerous. Which of course made the idea that much more appealing.

A conveniently placed manhole was situated in the street right outside the Cornstalk. After loading up with flashlights, a map, and weapons – stakes, swords, and one handy-dandy taser – Angel and Spike tugged away the manhole cover and disappeared into the belly of tunnels beneath the city. It was time for a little exploring.

* * *

**October 19th, 2005, Camp Premiere, St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana, 6:00 p.m.**

Faith practically leapt out of the animal shelter van and booked it for the solitude of her own tent. She had never really experienced sympathy like this before. No one had been around when her mom died, or when that rat bastard Kakistos gutted her first Watcher. And ever since then, people had been quick to assure her that whatever sh-t happened in her life was her own damn fault. So spending all day tracking stray animals while being surrounded by two extremely effusive co-eds and Eliza's quiet kindness had been rather overwhelming.

The Slayer bid her friends a hasty goodbye over her shoulder as she sped-walked away from them. It was taking much more self-discipline than she would have expected not to just run. But running would be rude, and these women had been nice. Finally, when she had put fifteen tents and a parking lot between herself and the twins, Faith relaxed a hair. No longer trapped by their regard or the obvious care they took in not mentioning Buddy, she was freed, a little, of her grief. She could send it to the back of her mind and not feel like she was dishonoring the dog's memory.

Looking forward to taking a quick nap before that evening's patrolling, the woman hastily unzipped her tent door and stepped inside. The small space was empty, although further cramped by her growing stake stockpile on her side and Angel's blood-filled cooler on Dean's. Kicking off her sneakers, Faith slunk back into her sleeping bag. She drew her knees up to her chest. By the time her partner came in fifteen minutes later, the Slayer was fast asleep.

Dean entered the tent gingerly, careful not to wake Faith. The girl had had a rough couple of days. He added a bag of ice, snuck from the kitchen, to the chest of blood and sat on the edge of his cot to pull off his boots. It dipped with his weight. The Slayer rolled towards him a few inches in her sleep.

A half-smile lighting his dusty features, the hunter gently pushed her back to her own side and lay down himself. His legs ached from that day's hard work, and his stomach was beating a ferocious tattoo against his spine. For the moment, however, exhaustion drove away both pain and hunger. Dean closed his eyes. He could deal with everything when he woke up. But for now, Faith wasn't the only one who needed a nap.

* * *

**October 19th, 2005, the French Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana, 8:00 p.m.**

"I'm starving," Spike groaned as he pushed the manhole cover back and clambered out onto the Rue Royale. Turning, he reached a hand down to Angel and helped the older vampire manage the last few rungs of the rusted ladder.

It had been an unproductive day, finding nothing living or undead. Just a lot of skeletons and some drowned rats. Bo-ring. Around six thirty, however, they had run into an alligator the size of a kayak, and the damned thing refused to die quietly. The bloody lizard'd gotten its mouth wrapped around Angel's torso and wouldn't let go, not even after Spike decapitated the gator.

In the end, he'd had to take his sword to the alligator's mouth and cut out teeth one by one until the bite was loose enough for Angel to worm free. A series of deep puncture wounds were scattered along the older vampire's chest and back. While vampires couldn't bleed, per se, he was still leaking bloody fluid, and he had been unsteady on his feet throughout their long trek back to the Quarter. He'd even leaned on Spike a time or two. If that wasn't cause for worry, Spike didn't know what was.

Ignoring Angel's protestations that really, he was fine, the blond wrapped an arm around his grandsire's back. He managed to avoid touching the worst of the bite marks. Too tired to shove Spike away, Angel accepted the support. Hobbling back into the hotel entryway, he slumped onto a decorative mauve velvet chaise lounge. Attempting the stairs right now was an impossibility.

Spike left him there and hurried upstairs to grab another bag of blood. They might regret this extravagance in a few days, but right now he was more concerned with getting Angel patched up. Digging in the other vampire's suitcase, he found a clean shirt and a first-aid kit. Ah, Angel. Ever the Boy Scout. Spike had to take a moment and laugh.

Rushing back down the stairs, he found Angel sitting with his elbows braced on his knees, his tattered shirt lying in a heap on the carpet.

"Here." Spike tossed him a unit of blood. "Drink up."

Angel vamped out momentarily and slit the plastic packaging open with a fang. Then he forced his face back into its human visage, despite the animalistic hunger that the blood evoked. He drank slowly from the bag, his wary gaze focused on the suture needle in Spike's hands. "No," he grunted between sips. "It'll heal fine with this. I don't need stitches."

"Au contraire, your giant pale forehead is even more giant and pale than usual." Spike ripped open the packaging on the sutures and brandished a box of alcohol wipes threateningly. "Don't make me knock you out, Peaches."

"Like you could," Angel said dismissively, but the giant wince that accompanied his comment seemed to change his mind. The vampire lay back on the chaise, exposing his chest, where the bites were deepest.

Working in silence, Spike cleaned the wounds with alcohol. He paid little attention when Angel hissed in pain. The six worst toothmarks, roughly two inches by two inches and nearly that deep, needed to be sewn up. When he was satisfied that most of the dirt had been removed from the punctures, the blond vampire started stitching. It took less than twenty minutes, but Angel was still drenched in sweat by the time he finished.

Stoic yet shaken, Angel hesitantly tugged a clean shirt over his head. "Thanks."

Spike shrugged. "What's family for?"

"We're family?" the older vampire joked in an attempt to return their relationship to its normal antagonism.

Not fooled for a second, the blond rolled his eyes. He sank down onto the chaise and banged Angel's shoulder with his. "Say whatever you want, but we've been family ever since Dru buried her fangs in my neck."

"I know." The words were barely audible. Without his vampiric super-hearing, Spike would never have caught them. Still, it was as much acknowledgement as he was likely to get from his taciturn grandsire. He'd take it.

"So . . . tonight?"

Angel removed his cellphone from one of his many pants pockets and flipped it open. The screen was cracked in three places, but it was thankfully still legible. He passed the phone to Spike, who scanned through the latest text messages from Faith that had come in around 5 p.m. Her team had been all over the city that day, and she mentioned finding exsanguinated dogs around Gates of Prayer 2, St. Roch, and Holt Cemeteries.

"You ready?"

The older vampire dropped the empty plastic bag to the floor. Only a few drops of blood remained, smeared in the hard-to-reach corners. Placing one hand on Spike's shoulder for support, Angel carefully got to his feet. "You're driving."

"Finally he sees sense," Spike muttered, sotto voce. He allowed his grandsire to lean on him, and they moved towards the back exit.

"Wait." Angel gripped the yoke of the other vampire's shirt in a tight vise. "Hush," he ordered in a whisper when Spike opened his mouth in indignation. "We aren't alone."

At that instant, the front door crashed to the ground as a dozen vampires in black paramilitary gear burst into the hotel. Spike shook free of his grandsire's grip and reached for his weapons. Brandishing a bastard sword in one hand and a fully charged taser in the other, he stepped in front of Angel. Best to give Captain Pale'n'Clammy a good minute to recover. Since the visitors had kicked in the door, he figured he could dispense with the niceties.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, vamping out. If they were displaying their game faces, he wouldn't deprive them of his own. He had larger fangs and handsomer brow ridges, anyway.

One of the paramilitary goons stepped forward, snarling. "This is not your city."

"Obviously not." Angel drew himself up to his total imposing height. He smiled cruelly. "If this were my city, the humans would be working for the vampires, not the other way 'round." He turned his back on the head goon, an emasculating, dismissive gesture. "You boys can't even seem to handle one pathetic Slayer."

"I've killed two," Spike added helpfully, examining his sharp, pointed nails. "Easy as dancing."

"You were not invited here, Angelus," warned the goon, but his confidence had begun to crumble.

Angel swept his gaze along the row of vampires attempting to flank him. He met each of their eyes, piercing them to the marrow and freezing them where they stood. "Oh, I don't have to be invited," he drawled. The terrible surety in his voice was almost enough to make Spike forget that his grandsire had been playing chew toy to an alligator barely an hour before. "If I want this city, I'll take it."

"You see," he continued the monologue, "I haven't decided yet. If this miserable town is worth my time or not . . . if any of you are worth my time or not." Angel tilted his head to one side. "What do you think, Spike?"

The blond vampire did not bother to respond. Instead, he launched into a flurry of action, tasering the two invaders closest to him. Two shots of electricity to the chest, and the vampires hit the ground before they could process what was happening. Angel followed Spike's lead, driving his booted foot into the goon leader's groin. The goon leader toppled over, clutching at his crotch and whimpering.

"Oi, Hair Gel." Spike tossed his longsword to his grandsire. The older vampire caught the blade by its handle and swept it through the necks of two advancing intruders. They exploded in a puff of dust, providing enough cover for Spike to stake the two tasered vamps and for Angel to behead two more victims.

"Here's the deal," announced Angel when the dust cleared to reveal him standing with his boot pressed firmly against the outspoken goon's trachea. He stepped down a little bit, to hear the cartilage crunch. An incredibly satisfying noise, it sent thrilling goosebumps racing up and down his spine. Perhaps Angelus wasn't the only sadist in this old body . . . . "You wanna live?"

The vampire beneath him writhed and snarled.

"Don't make me ask again. You want to live?" He lifted his foot a few centimeters.

"Yes," gasped the vampire, his hands scrabbling at his throat.

"Who do you work for?"

"No one."

Angel pressed down just a little harder. "Try again. Who do you work for?"

"You!" shouted one of the other five vampires still standing. His slow brain had finally started ticking. "You, sir. I mean, my lord Angelus."

"My lord. You hear that, Spike?"

Spike folded three fingers of his free hand in to salute Angel with the V Sign. "Reading you loud and clear, your evil overlordness."

Choosing to ignore this insubordination, Angel lifted the leader of the invaders to his feet, dragging him upwards by the collar. "Here's the thing. I'm a nice guy. What's your name?"

"Felix," replied the vampire in a strangled voice.

"I'm a nice guy, Felix. And all I want to do is see New Orleans restored to her former glory – with a slight change in the pecking order. Now tell me, Felix: who's calling himself the leader of this joint? Cuz the Order of Aurelius . . . we don't play second fiddle."

"Jean Pierre Lafitte," choked Felix. He was already damned. If he came back without killing Angelus, the boss would have him killed. And if he didn't give Angelus what he wanted, Angelus would kill him. A nasty little voice in the back of Felix's mind remarked that Angelus would likely be far more imaginative than the boss.

Angel maintained an air of perfect calm, but his hand tightened around the vampire's neck. "Lafitte?" he prompted.

"Yeah. Son of Jean Lafitte, nephew of Pierre – the greatest pirates to ever sail Gulf waters. He's one of the meanest, cruelest, smartest bastards to ever drain a virgin."

Spike and Angel exchanged bored glances above the heads of their new flunkies. What was with the new generation, everyone always claiming atrocities they had not committed and titles they had not earned?

"You mean to say that you're working for a pirate?" Try as he might, Spike couldn't quite remove the mockery from the question.

Felix nodded forcefully. Disgusted, Angel released his collar, and the half-choked vampire dropped with a thud to the parquet floor. Wisely, he lay still.

"Pirates. I can't believe it," he spoke in an undertone.

"Not the most fear-inspiring ruse, I'll grant you," Spike agreed.

"No, it's worse than that."

"Worse?"

Angel nodded, appalled to the very depths of his artist core. "It's tacky."

"Tacky?" Spike raised a scarred eyebrow. "S'pose I can't argue much there." Moving in sync, the two vampires turned to survey their new flunkies. "Okay, you useless lumps. You work for us now. Give us a week, and you'll be drinking people, not pets. Any questions?"

The piles of dust littering the Turkish carpet silenced all potential comments.

"Right." The blond glanced at his grandsire from out of the corner of his eye. No one else would have noticed, but he was subtly fading, his pallor growing paler. Time to move this party elsewhere and get Angel back in the suburban before the excitement of danger wore off and he collapsed. Not quite the proper sort of behavior to inspire fear and trembling in the rank and file. "Where can we find this Jean Pierre Lafitte?"

Crickets chirped – or would have chirped, had any of them survived Katrina. The rank and file sulked in silence, their mouths tightened into resentful lines. At length, the vampire who had spoken earlier, a skinny guy with curly black hair, lifted his yellow eyes from the floor to glare at Spike.

"St. Louie's Cathedral."

Spike remembered the building – it was only a few blocks away. They had passed it the night before, a giant gray basilica with peaked towers like a Cinderella castle. Against his wishes, he was impressed by Lafitte's stones. Using a cathedral as a base of operations. Not even Angelus had ever had the audacity to do that.

The prospect of a challenge freed Angel of his tacky-pirate-induced ennui. He laughed without humor. "Well, I do love a cathedral. Almost as much as I love nuns. You like nuns, don't you, Spike?"

"Delicious," echoed Spike, straight-faced.

"Sun's already down," mused Angel aloud, sing-songing the words. "Slayer'll be out soon." The older vampire smiled, baring far too many teeth. "Let's go see Lafitte."

 


	29. Rock You Like a Hurricane, pt 8

To be honest, Spike didn't blame the rank and file for turning so quickly on Lafitte. An order from Angelus tended to have the same effect on most vampires that the burning bush had had on Moses. He overwhelmed you, with that face and those eyes and the ruthless cruelty behind them. You kind of knew, even in that first meeting, that you either went along, or you died.

Not that Spike missed Angelus – by any means. He had an awful tendency of seducing your girl and wearing Bowie-esque leather pants. Still, you couldn't deny that Angelus had charisma, a charisma that Angel lacked. Sure, he got the job done. It didn't matter how long it took or how badass his opponents thought that they had become. He was Angel. He beat the bad guys. He just didn't have as much fun with it.

But now, standing shoulder to shoulder with Captain Forehead, shoving the giant bronze cathedral doors open so that they crashed against the granite walls of the entry, Spike had to admit that sometimes even the Great Brooder had style.

"Louie, I'm home," called Angel at the top of his lungs, glancing at the gaping hole in the cathedral roof. Puddles of muddy water littered the floor, tiled with black and white diamonds. The nave stank, like mildew and mold and mice. He took a moment to appreciate the acrid odor. Perhaps, once upon a time, a very long time ago, this pervading decay would have bothered him. Now, it smelled like an old friend.

After catching a glimpse of the cloudy night sky, far above the peaked roof, his gaze closed in on the group of figures a hundred feet away, arranged dramatically about the chancel at the opposite end of the nave.

"They're pulling out all the stops for us," muttered Spike. He looked behind them for their new flunkies, but the six vampires had vanished into the dimness of the aisles. Figured. He hadn't taken them for having much in the way of backbone anyway.

"Mmm." Angel rubbed his hands together excitedly, a gesture more for Spike's entertainment than anything else. "Showtime."

The two vampires stalked down the central aisle of the nave, wishing that their private security uniforms had been flexible enough to allow for their preferred dusters. A good duster gave a certain melodrama to a stalk, swishing about one's legs and adding gravitas. Regardless, they presented a menacing picture, ridged foreheads and ivory fangs denoting their undead status. Two pairs of yellow eyes swept the cathedral, just in case Jean Pierre Lafitte was impetuous enough to try and stop them.

In less than a minute, they reached the chancel, the raised dais where the altar and the bishop normally sat. The church's regalia had been knocked aside, and broken tables and chairs lay abandoned beside the dais. Blood was smeared everywhere – on the wooden altarpiece, the brass pipes of the grand pipe organ, and on the polychrome statues of Peter and John the Evangelist guarding the altar. Cat by the smell, Angel judged. Probably black cat, at that, given the melodramatic desecration and the occult symbols scrawled in the blood.

The altar itself had been replaced by a large, throne-like chair with gilded arms and upholstery of red and gold damask. On the chair, resplendent in crisp white linen trousers and a jacket of crimson velvet with a starched, lacy white collar and delicate gold buttons, sat a young boy of ten. Raven curls surrounded a long, pale face, remarkable for its hollowed, rosy cheeks and heavy eyebrows that slanted in towards the bridge of his nose. Several henchmen surrounded the throne, all of them hulking bruisers with their fangs on display.

"Frak this," grumbled Spike, forcing away flashbacks of the Annoying One. For an instant, his mind darted to Drusilla, and he missed her, passionately. When they finished all this, perhaps it was time to find her again, see if they could patch things up. She was insane, and he had a soul now, but other couples made do with worse.

Angel merely folded his arms across his chest and stared, impervious, at the child. He knew how this game was played. It all came down to power. When push came to shove, everything was all about power. The child wanted him to speak, wanted him to lose his temper or plead or do something rash. It was evident from the set up, the brazen throne upon the chancel, the dozen disposable henchvamps sent to bring Spike and Angel to him. Whoever he was, really, Jean Pierre Lafitte wanted power. He wanted to control them.

Hmph. The more fool he. Even taking the child's claims as fact, Angelus had been playing the game for over half a century before this upstart's father ever sailed a ship or sacked a town.

Finally, the child spoke, his mouth turning downwards in a petulant frown. "William the Bloody . . . and Angelus . . . you killed my men." He paused between words, his voice high, cold, and grating. "I should be most displeased with you." Jean Pierre Lafitte rose from his throne. Dispassionately, Angel calculated him to be just over four feet tall and to weigh ninety pounds, at most. Imposing, he was not.

"And yet," the boy trilled, "I find myself willing to overlook your . . . hubris. For, indeed, brothers, I am quite content that you have come to join our little endeavor. We are building a new world. Soon we will see New Orleans as she once was, restored to her fame and honor, a queen amongst slaves. Night by night, we shall purge New Orleans of her undesirables, until blood runs through the gutters and none of the impure remain to trouble my beloved city. Will you fight alongside me?"

Spike and Angel kept quiet. They knew from experience that, given enough silence, most vampires would hang themselves with it.

"What say you?" The boy began pacing the dais with a frenetic energy, like a wild animal barely held in check by the rein. He glanced, wide-eyed, about the chapel, his face burning with passion. "Will you join with me? Together, we can cleanse this city of the human filth."

The veritable image of insouciance, Spike shrugged. "Hate to admit this, mate, but honestly, me an' Angelus here, we aren't so much fans of your work. Eating animals, providing the Slayer with plenty of targets . . . doesn't seem like you're doing anything impressive."

Jean Pierre scoffed. "As if you could do better. If the rumors floating from California have any merit, you have been dallying with mortals – the both of you, dishonoring your demon heritage and betraying your own kind with . . . a Slayer."

This last came out in a hiss, and a scuffling sound echoed above them. Following the source of the noise, Spike saw the balconies lining the second floor gallery of the nave, bristling with bodies. He counted nearly fifty vampires. Aha. So this was where everyone liked to hole up. Fifty was a bit much for two to take on, even when one of those two was as ferocious and fearsome as he was. Perhaps they shouldn't antagonize the princeling too much just yet.

Unfortunately, Angel missed that memo. "I'm afraid you're going to have to do better than that," he snickered. "Slept with the Slayer? Of course we did. They don't call her Slutty the Vampire Slayer for nothing. And it makes her destruction so much sweeter when you can break her heart first. You looking for lessons in technique? I'm surprised. Wouldn't have expected you to ever reach puberty." The brunette vampire gave the immortal child a long, thorough once over. "Pity," he remarked conversationally. "I only really like children when I'm eating them."

His taunt hit a chord in the pirate prince. "I don't need lessons from you – in anything! We do not need your help to fully destroy the Slayer. We have already begun. Her mongrel is dead. Soon, her lover will be as well. And then, only then, will we destroy her. We will not stop until she is drained dry as a skeleton in the Sahara, and her body lies in pieces too small for the worms to make a decent meal of."

Angel refrained from informing him that he had missed the mark. Perfect destruction required a perfect understanding of your prey. A long, slow, sticky torment, now that would be the way to handle Buffy. Make her watch all of her little friends and family die horribly and convince her that it was all her fault before snuffing the life out of her – like a candle. Wait until she reached the uttermost depths of despair, and then snap her neck. Like a twig. Like it meant nothing. Like the easiest thing in the world. The darker side of his nature purred with the mere thought.

But Faith, on the other hand, was a different story. Faith the nihilist, who welcomed death like a friend. She didn't love, not the way Buffy loved. You couldn't get off trying to torture her like that. No, with Faith, you hurt her by denying her chance at death. To change her into something even more monstrous and outcast than she already was, and then never allow her to feel the freedom of that monstrosity. His body thrummed at the mental image of sinking his fangs back into that tender neck, of drinking scalding Slayer blood so dark, so bitter, so heady with despair.

For a moment, the vampire was lost in a reverie. He had not thought about this – not consciously, and not in years. And yet, the ideas came surging into his mind the moment they found an opening. No matter how angelic his face, no matter his advances on the path to redemption, the demon never ceased its struggle to escape.

"I suppose you could do that," he drawled at length, when the bloodlust faded and it became clear that everyone from Jean Pierre Lafitte to Spike to the two and a half score of vampires in the upper galleries were waiting for him to speak. "But, really, I think you'd miss out on the fun. You speak of destiny, of purity, of your demonic heritage. You act like this is all part of some grand mission." He twisted his voice into a mockery of Lafitte's childish trill. "Clear New Orleans of the dregs of humanity. Restore our beloved city to her beloved status."

Angel's tone returned to its normal deep pitch. "You make me laugh. Foolish. Childish. You're a vampire, not some politician trying to gentrify the world. Show some teeth, you bumbling buffoon." His calm drawl shifted into a petrifying snarl. Smirking on the inside, Angel borrowed some words from one of Spike's few useful outbursts. "Being a vampire isn't brains, you imbecilic infant, it's blood. Blood screaming inside you to work its will.  _Blood_ ," he repeated for emphasis, tilting his head back so that all of the peanut gallery could see his face.

Returning his focus to Lafitte, Angel continued, matter-of-fact, "Sad thing is, you probably don't even understand what I'm talking about, do you? You've never really tasted blood. You prefer to drink pets, like the pathetic ratcatcher that you are. You don't have the stones to go after anything human, let alone the Slayer. But, you know what, I'm in a good mood. So how's this – I'll bring her to you. Tonight at midnight. Spike here and I, we'll show all of you what you're missing.

"After all," he spread his arms, lifting them away from his sides, and gazed longingly at the dark sky overhead, "tonight's the new moon. There's no better time for a Slayer to die."

* * *

**October 19th, 2005, Camp Premiere, St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana, 9:30 p.m.**

"Unnnnggghhh." Faith opened bleary eyes and reached for her ringing cell phone. Noticing the time, she made a second disgruntled noise. Dang it. She hadn't intended to sleep for so long, not with all the fighting evil that she needed to be doing. The army cot and sleeping bag must have seduced her with their Spartan comfort. Was that the proper use of the word Spartan? Seven years since she had first encountered the word, and Faith still wasn't sure.

"Hello," she mumbled into the phone, keeping her voice down. If the large, man-sized lump pressed against her left side was anything to go by, Dean was still sleeping. Huh. They'd taken a nap together. She'd make sure to keep that on the down-low.

"I've got good news, and I've got bad news." Angel's voice was familiar, comforting, level. Faith snuggled down deeper into her sleeping bag.

"You gonna tell me a story, Big Guy?"

He chuckled into the phone. "Did you just wake up?"

"Something like that."

"You ever think about  _not_  keeping vampire hours?"

The Slayer forced herself to sit up. "Speaking of vampires, you got anything for me?" G-d, did she feel disgusting. Her mouth tasted like something had died and rotted in it. She rubbed the crusties out of the corners of her eyes. That did it. Before they mounted any operations tonight, she was definitely taking a shower.

"Actually, I do." Angel gave her a quick summary of everything that had happened that day, beginning with the alligator attack after last night's goose egg and closing with meeting Lafitte in the St. Louis Cathedral. While he spoke, Faith listened intently. She saved her questions for the end.

"So. Fifty of them, you say?"

"Spike thinks so. He got a better look than I did."

"That's because Angelcakes here was too busy 'aving a manly staring contest with the little wanker."

Ahh. There was her favorite bottle blond. She'd wondered when he was going to join the conversation. "Hey, Spike. I take it I'm on speaker? Hmm. Fifty's kind of a lot, don't you think? I mean, it sounds like a full on Texas hoedown, but that's like twelve to one odds…. We're gonna need to plan this one."

"Already working on that, pet. Lafitte doesn't trust our bona fides, not quite yet – "

"Oh, he trusts them," added Angel darkly. "He just knows he can't trust us."

Covering the mouthpiece of the phone, Faith shook Dean's shoulder. "Dean. Deeee-annnnn. Wake up."

The hunter groaned and pushed at her hand. Undeterred, the Slayer continued to shake him until he lifted his head from the cot. Dean blinked heavily. For the first time in days, he had been lost in deep in the land of Nod. "Whaaaa's goin' on?" he slurred.

Faith removed her hand from the phone and tapped the speaker button. "Mischief, mayhem, murder. Take your pick."

"I always knew there was a reason I liked her," Spike commented in an audible aside. "Girl knows how to have a good time."

"Angel, want to give Dean the spiel?"

"Sure." Despite being on speaker, Angel's voice still retained its mellifluous timbre. He explained the bare bones of what they were working with, concluding, "The odds are a bit high, but Spike and I have already thought of how we can manage that."

"I wanted to blow up the church."

"And I told him no. Architecture that elegant should be preserved. Besides, I think the pipe organ is still salvageable."

Dean looked at Faith questioningly. He mouthed, "Who is this guy?" The Slayer had to stifle an unprofessional giggle. This was serious plotting time. Even if Dean had a point and Angel's tangents were a little out there, she needed to focus.

"Besides," Angel continued, "an explosion leaves too much room for error. We want to be certain that they're all ash and dust. Now here's an idea that we think might just do the trick . . ."

* * *

**October 19th, 2005, Gates of Prayer 1, New Orleans, Louisiana, 11:00 p.m.**

"I still can't believe we're doing this," said Dean, closing the driver's side door of the Impala and locking his Baby. Blowtorch in hand, he turned to watch Faith as she bent over to tie the laces on her boot. "You think this will actually work?" He wasn't usually this chatty before a job, but relying on vampires set his teeth on edge. Angel and Spike were the linchpins to this plan, and that made him incredibly nervous.

Faith noted the unease in his voice. Straightening up, she walked around the trunk of the Impala and came to stand close to the hunter. She kept her tone light. "I think it's got as much of a chance as anything else. And, Dean, just so you know, there's no one I'd rather have at my back than you, Angel, and Spike. I trust you guys – all of you."

"I don't trust vampires." It was said with flat honesty, not defiance.

"That's mighty smart of you," observed a Cockney voice.

Fifteen figures melted out of the darkness around the cemetery gate. Fifteen vampires taking no pains to hide their true faces. Spike and Angel led the pack. They had abandoned their private security schtick for their normal clothing – fifty shades of black. Black trousers, black t-shirts, and long black dusters that whispered when they moved. Somehow in the last two hours, Angel had found himself a pair of skintight leather pants. Or perhaps he had simply brought them along in his suitcase, anticipating their use.

Dean's fingers clenched tightly around the hilt of his machete. His heart pounded. A trickle of sweat traced its way down his spine. Fifteen vampires at one time . . . it was a little much. He moved closer to Faith, who was grinning wolfishly. Her free hand reached out for his.

"Angelus. It's been a while."

"Slayer," purred Angel.

"I'm liking the leather. New look? Bit extreme. Screams bondage."

"Wore them just for you, Faithy."

Intellectually, Faith knew that this was merely Angel pretending to be Angelus, but he did too damn good of a job. The hair on her arms stood on end, and she fought back a shiver. Why did he have to be so creepy?

"I remember putting you down like the dog you are," she continued. Try as she might to sound unfazed, a hint of fear found its way in.

Angel narrowed in on the fear like a shark scenting blood. He exchanged a quick look with Spike.

The younger vampire moved to the side, making a space for the other vampires to pass him. "Step right on up, lads," he crowed. "Don't want to miss this, do you?"

"But not too close. Slayer here's mine. Aren't you, lover?"

Faith dropped Dean's hand and stepped forward to meet Angel. She removed a stake from her jacket pocket. Tossing it easily from hand to hand, the Slayer tossed her head. Neck bare, she took another step forward. "Come 'n' get it, you piece of sh-t."

This was it. The moment of attack. Now, while the baker's dozen of hench vampires were pressed into a tight pack, their faces bright with anticipation. Faith snapped her wrist out, sending her stake flying fifteen feet across the parking lot. The stake embedded itself in some vampire's ribcage, and he exploded in a cloud of dust. At that exact moment, Spike surreptitiously staked another vampire in the back of the crowd. No one noticed.

The other eleven vampires charged forwards, racing towards the Slayer, heedless of Angel. As they passed him, the older vampire flicked his arms. Stakes dropped into his hands from the sleeves of his duster. Angel drove the stakes into two more vampires, blinking fiercely against the dust.

Dean and Faith did not wait for the vampires to reach them. Faith launched herself into the melee. She downed one fang with a roundhouse kick to the throat. Someone leapt at her, and the Slayer ducked into a crouch. Her assailant went flying over her head. He slammed face-first into the gravel parking lot. Dean was on both fallen vampires in an instant, staking them before they could regain their bearings.

While Faith buried another vamp in a deluge of punches, the hunter raised his blowtorch. Taking a can of hairspray that they'd borrowed from Lana and Dana, he sprayed a thick aerosol jet at the three vampires attempting to flank him. Dean spun in a quick circle and lit the torch.

The flames devoured the aerosol. A wheel of bright, angry fire surrounded the hunter. He dropped to the ground as the tongues of flame licked hungrily at the vampires. Distracted by their burning clothing and limbs, they made easy targets. The hunter unsheathed the machete at his hip and decapitated the three of them.

That left four antagonists, two of which were closed in with Spike, exchanging a flurry of blows. Angel and Faith each battled single opponents.

"You screwed us over!" bellowed the vamp fighting Angel. His right hook failed to land, and the older vampire took advantage of his momentary distraction. Angel reached out, grabbed his adversary behind his ears, and twisted. The vampire's neck snapped in two. Before he could recover or even form a coherent thought, Angel's stake buried itself deep within the vampire's ribs.

Angel brushed ash from his leather pants. Making eye contact with Dean, he nodded once and turned to observe Spike running both of his opponents through with a single tree limb as Faith knocked hers to the ground and staked him neatly. The Slayer scrabbled back up to her feet, sweat pouring down her forehead. Spike clapped her on the arm.

"And that, boys, is why you don't tangle with a Slayer," he announced to the dusty parking lot. "Nice fire trick, Dean."

"Thanks." The hunter rubbed the dust clear from the back of his neck, feeling awkward.

Heedless of her audience, Faith yanked her tee shirt over her head and shook it vigorously to get the worst of the vamp-ash out. Pulling it down again, she saw to her amusement that all three males were pointedly not staring in her direction. "How many was that?" she asked, canvassing the ground for stakes. There was no point in discarding weapons.

"Thirteen," replied Angel as he joined her in the search.

"Which leaves us thirty-seven." The Slayer shoved extra stakes into her boots. Felt like they continued more stakes than leg, at this point. She rolled her shoulders backwards to loosen them up. "I don't know if I can do thirty-seven more tonight. That'd be three more dust-ups this size. And if we make just one stupid mistake . . . "

"What about Spike's plan to burn the castle? Anyway we could make that work?" wondered the hunter.

"Maybe," Angel hesitated. If Faith was feeling the strain already, then their original plan might not be the best option. And yet . . . it had been so poetic. "I think . . ." A fresh idea struck, and the vampire smiled. "Okay," he said excitedly, turning to the other three. "How about this. . ."

* * *

They adjourned to the Cornstalk Hotel, all piling into the Impala. As he drove, the hunter kept glancing up into his rearview mirror to watch his passengers. Vampires in the backseat. Who would ever have thought that he, Dean Winchester, would have vampires in his car? Unliving, talking, plotting vampires, no less.

If the imperative to finish this job and get the hell out of New Orleans had not been so strong, he might have found the whole thing unbearable. It went against every lesson his father had ever taught him. You killed monsters, you didn't chauffeur them. A part of Dean's psyche railed impotently at his current circumstances, screaming at him to stop the car and behead those fanged bastards. The rest of him, caught up by the urgent need to eliminated Lafitte, placed its trust in the brunette woman sitting shotgun. And so, instead of doing anything drastically violent, he followed Angel's terse directions back towards the center of the city.

As the four adventurers neared the Quarter, Spike broke into song, his voice surprisingly pleasant. "There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun."

Faith joined in on the tune, "And it's been the ruin of many a poor child, and God, I know I'm one."

They continued, voices climbing with the melody. "My mother was a tailor. She sewed my new blue jeans. My father was a gamblin' man, down in New Orleans."

"Come on, Peaches," commanded Spike.

Shocked and a little horrified, Dean listened as the older vampire took the next verse. "Now the only thing a gambler needs is a suitcase and a trunk. And the only time he's satisfied is when he's on a drunk."

"Your turn, Dean," laughed Faith as Spike massacred the organ solo, slamming imaginary piano keys.

"No thanks."

"Aw, give a try. Or do you not sing?" challenged Spike.

Well. When you asked him like that. Rolling his eyes, Dean threw his head back. "Oh mother, tell your children not to do what I have done. Spend your lives in sin and misery in the House of the Rising Sun."

All four sang together for the final two stanzas. Had there been any living dogs in the area, Dean knew they would have howled along. "Well, I got one foot on the platform, the other foot on the train. I'm going back to New Orleans to wear that ball and chain. There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun. And it's been the ruin of many a poor child. And God, I know I'm one."

"I think that answers your question, Peaches," announced Spike after the final note had died away.

"What question?" asked Dean suspiciously. He made the final turn into the Cornstalk's driveway and shifted into park. His vampiric passengers climbed out and led the way to the broken back door of the hotel.

"I have a new idea," Angel replied once they were all safely inside the lair. The vampire ran a hand through his spiky coiffed hair. "How comfortable are you with arson?"

"We are going with desecration?" Spike's excitement was close to indecent. "Bloody brilliant." He left the other three standing in the main hallway and rushed upstairs to grab a few supplies.

The hunter ignored him. "What do you need?" he said, giving Angel his full attention. "I've got three or four things of lighter fluid in the trunk and a half gallon of gasoline. Wasn't sure how much we'd need 'em on this trip. Plus a handful of lighters and a giant box of camping matches."

Impressed, Angel nodded. "That should help."

Faith, who had been eyeing the ornate chaise lounge in the hallway, interrupted. "Dude. Why is there blood all over this thing?"

The vampire sighed. "I told you. We got into a tangle with an alligator."

"You didn't tell me you bled this badly." Glowering, the Slayer crossed her arms across her chest. "Show me. Now."

Knowing when to admit defeat, Angel hooked his fingers beneath the hem of his black shirt and tugged it up and over his head, displaying a distinctive griffin tattoo that covered his right shoulder blade, its front paws enclosing a large letter 'A'. "You happy?"

She didn't say anything for a moment, merely stepped closer to investigate the sutured wounds. "You or Spike?"

"That would be me." The blond vampire came hurrying back down the grand staircase, laden with two bags of blood. He handed one to Angel and then started slurping away at his own.

Dean turned his head away, grossed out. "Seriously?"

Ignoring him, Faith commented, "Nice stitching." She eyed the blood in their hands. "Guys. Save a bit for the plan, remember?"

It took less than a minute for the vampires to finish their snack, until only an inch of blood remained in each of the bags. Licking his lips, his teeth momentarily stained pink, Angel dipped his finger in the leftover blood. "Close your eyes," he warned Faith.

Eyes shut tight, lips pursed, Faith stood frozen while Spike and Angel smeared blood all over her forehead and neck, creating the illusion of multiple cuts and bites. It was cool and sticky, congealing quickly on her skin. The Slayer locked her knees, which gave her something to focus on besides Dean's snort of disgust and the liquid trickling over her collarbone and down into her shirt.

"Want a gut wound, too?" Spike offered cheerfully.

"When was the last time you actually bit someone in the gut?"

The younger vampire's mouth formed a moue of distaste. "Well . . . . most people have too much fat to let you get down to any of the big arteries in the abdomen."

"Oh, G-d, stop." Faith held up a hand. "I'm sorry I asked."

"There." Angel spread the final drops of blood at the junction where the Slayer's neck met her left shoulder.

Faith opened her eyes, grateful that the vampires had been conscientious enough to avoid her eyebrows and that there was no thick, red liquid currently dripping through her eyelashes. She spun in a quick circle. "How do I look, Dean?"

"Mutilated," replied the hunter shortly, looking away. He was becoming less and less a fan of the vampires' plan as the seconds ticked by.

"Mutilated works." She turned to Angel. "Okay. I think I'm ready."

 


	30. Rock You Like a Hurricane, pt 9

**October 20th, 2005, St. Louis Cathedral, New Orleans, Louisiana, 1:00 a.m.**

Angel stormed into the cathedral, a bedraggled, unconscious woman in his arms. He passed through the great doors held open by his minions - Dean and Spike with baseball caps pulled low over their foreheads - who then faded into the shadows behind him. The vampire swept down the center aisle. Faith's head lolled against his right shoulder, her thick hair clumped and matted with drying blood. Her breathing rattled, shallow and rapid. Casually shifting his grip, Angel readjusted his hold beneath her knees and around her waist.

She was taller than Buffy -  _that_  he remembered - and so he had expected her to weigh more. Slayers tended to run rather dense for their size, and he had been shocked at first by how light Faith was. Further unnerving was the fact that she could be a little too convincing at playing unconscious. It was proving difficult to stay one hundred percent focused on the task at hand.

Sooner than he had anticipated, Angel's carefully measured steps brought him to the edge of the chancel. The vampire halted mere feet from the child-king's throne. "One Slayer, as promised," he said in a mocking tone, his first words since entering the cathedral.

Jean Pierre Lafitte rose and tiptoed forwards, his pale face contorted with strong emotion. Centuries old, and still a child. "That could be anyone," he scoffed. His eyes narrowed. "Prove it's the Slayer."

Internally, Angel sighed in irritation. This was why Angelus always preferred to work solo. People could be so stupid.

Releasing his hold, the vampire dropped his burden, allowing her to fall four feet onto the edge of the dais. She hit the marble in a tangle of limbs, cracking her skull on the stone platform and slithering down the trio of steps to lie in a crumpled heap inches away from Angel's combat boots. The Slayer groaned feebly.

"You want proof?" he demanded savagely, yanking Faith upright by the lapels of her leather jacket. He shook her with the ferocity of a cat playing with a mouse. "How's that for proof?" His fingers dug into the woman's long brown hair, navigating the clots of coagulating blood. Jerking her head to the side revealed the three-inch swathe of tan skin where two faint, raised circular scars were on display.

He traced the scars with the pads of his fingers, a lover's caress. Eyes rolling wildly, Faith spasmed in the vampire's grasp. She cried out at the hair-pulling. Both Lafitte and Angel switched to their game faces, snarling at their prisoner.

"You see these?" The brunette vampire caressed the scars again, this time with a languorous lick of his tongue. He met Lafitte's yellow gaze, his lips and chin dark with blood. "Left them there myself, two years ago. That right, Faithy?"

"Frak you," Faith coughed. She had bitten her tongue when her head slammed into the marble step. Flailing with her arms, she landed a glancing blow on Angel's chin. When he only laughed, the Slayer scrabbled for purchase on the tile, but her boots kept slipping.

"Patience, lover." Angel's voice was amused, sardonic. "You know I like my girls to lie still," he repeated a line from their last confrontation. Kneeling beside her, he pulled her into his lap by her coat. Faith squirmed, lashing out unsuccessfully with fists and boots. Lafitte drew nearer, eyes wide with fascination, as did his five bodyguards. The crowds of vampires in the upper galleries murmured in anticipation. Here was a chance to watch a real master at work. Angelus finishing off the Slayer - not a sight to be missed.

Playing to his audience, the former Scourge of Europe buried his face in the Slayer's shoulder. A small bag of blood lay concealed beneath his tongue. As he faked piercing his victim's skin, he punctured the decoy with a canine. Blood spurted into the space between fangs and shoulder at high velocity, driven by the force of the bite. On cue, Faith screamed and seized, her eyes slamming shut and her body convulsing.

The vampire lifted his head, blood streaming from the corners of his mouth. "Want a taste?"

Lafitte's eyes widened even further with excitement. He peered at the still-seizing Slayer.

"Don't worry," said Angel, voice laden with dark pleasure. "I'll hold her for you."

"No, no," protested the woman as Jean Pierre leaned over her. She spasmed again, kicking her leg out, catching Lafitte in the stomach.

"Bad girl." Angel took hold of the offending leg, wrenching it up behind her so that Faith's boot brushed her fingertips.

Recovering from the (admittedly weakened) kick, Lafitte advanced. He wrapped one pale hand around the base of Faith's throat and squeezed. She choked and attempted to claw at him. Lifting the hand away again, the pirate child laughed. "And after all this time. You aren't so mighty. Just . . . pathetic. . . . Say hello to your mongrel for me."

He bent in for the kiss of death and instead exploded into a miasma of dark charcoal, leaving Faith's hand in the exact place Jean Pierre Lafitte's heart had been a second previous, gripping a stake taken from her boot. Simultaneously, fires blossomed at the ends of both galleries, twin infernos that licked at the ancient, wooden pews, only to find that they preferred vampire bones to wood. Vampires went up in the blaze, screaming two-legged torches, burnt to cinders by the flames that consumed them with hedonistic delight.

Angel leapt into action before any of Lafitte's hench-vamps could put two and two together and call conspiracy. Lowering Faith to the floor - much more gently this time - he left her to pull herself together and unsheathed his longsword. Sword in one hand, stake in the other, he rushed forward and beheaded the tallest of the bodyguards. Start at the top, work your way down. That was his current motto.

From the back of the nave, Spike and Dean dropped their cans of gasoline and lighter fluid. Besides that contained in the Impala's trunk, they had found more gasoline in the the gardening shed at the Cornstalk. When that only added another half gallon to their arsenal, Dean had drained the tank of Angel's SUV. During the big showdown, the vampire and the hunter had taken separate sides of the cathedral. They snuck up the matching spiral stone staircases to the gallery and had blended in with the other vampires for a moment, pouring lighter fluid and gasoline over the first ten feet of the gallery floor.

When Faith staked Lafitte, that had been their signal to light matches and set the galleries ablaze. Dean and Spike then hurried quickly back down the stone staircases, dousing the steps in gasoline as they went. At the bottom of the stairs, they lit a few more matches and threw those onto the gasoline. Now, twenty feet (and fifteen steps) full of flames lay between them and the vampires in the galleries above. No one would be escaping in that direction.

Task accomplished, the vampire and the hunter sprinted across the nave as the first couple of fangs made the sixteen-foot leap from the gallery down to the cathedral floor. While Spike raced on to join Angel in decimating the bodyguards, Dean stopped beside the Slayer, who was still shaking her head like a wet dog and had only managed to scramble to her knees. Taking her hands, he pulled Faith to her feet. Weakened, she sagged against him momentarily.

"Next time, how about we go with a plan that doesn't use you as a punching bag?" The hunter removed his jacket and tossed it to the floor, revealing the bow and quiver strapped to his back. "One crossbow, as promised." He undid the buckles with steady fingers and handed the bow over.

Just in time, too. Three of the vampires who had jumped down from the gallery were attempting to sneak up on them, and Spike was too busy fighting the final two bodyguards to help out.

"Duck," a weary Faith ordered. Her body ached too much at present for her to even think about wanting to engage in close combat. With her crossbow in hand, however, she didn't need to. Dean obeyed instantly, dropping into a crouch while Faith fired three shots over his head. Slayer girl knew how to make each quarrel count; the attack party collapsed into puffs of ash.

Cries of pain echoed overhead as more vampires were immolated in the fires. Faith watched dispassionately while Angel knocked the last bodyguard to the group and slammed a stake between his ribs. Turning her attention back to Dean, she croaked, "Take the stakes out of my jacket. I'm gonna thin out the galleries. You keep anyone from getting too close to me. Deal?"

"Deal."

Gritting her teeth against her throbbing migraine, Faith leaned against a pillar near the chancel and fired off shot after shot. Any more vampires that attempted to flee the burning galleries exploded into dust before their feet could reach the ground. The Slayer shot until her quiver was empty while Angel, Spike, and Dean finished off the vampires who had already made it to the nave. Finally, when the main floor of the cathedral was empty, and the last shriek from the gallery had faded into silence, she pushed away from the pillar.

"You okay?" Angel rushed to her side, looking at her with extreme concern in his chocolate puppy eyes. "I am so sorry, Faith. Things got carried away."

"'S'fine," she slurred, blinking heavily. Now that the fight itself was over, all of her bumps and bruises were clamoring for her body's attention, leaving little blood flow or energy for higher functions. "We needed to get Lafitte in close. It worked." The Slayer swayed where she stood. Dean came to stand behind her, his hands on her waist providing the support she needed to remain upright.

"Nice job, guys," she said a little more steadily, making eye contact with each of her friends in turn. "Now can we go home?"

* * *

**October 20th, 2005, French Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana, 3:30 a.m.**

When they returned to the Cornstalk, the first thing on Faith's mind was cleaning up. She stumbled upstairs to one of the guest bathrooms and turned on the shower, hoping against hope that the plumbing in the Quarter was still working. To her great relief, a medium-sized stream of brown water came out of the shower head.

The Slayer stripped off her bloody clothes and left them in a pile on the bath mat. Keeping eyes and mouth closed tight, she stepped beneath the water. It smelled like a swamp, but Faith preferred swamp to vampire chow. She just had her fingers crossed that the boys downstairs could keep themselves out of trouble for five minutes.

The worst of the blood washed off, the woman wrapped herself in a towel and examined her injuries in the bathroom mirror. Her ribs ached, and bruises were already starting to form on her lower right side. A cut across her left forehead would need a butterfly bandage to keep it from scarring. Frowning, Faith dropped the towel and reached for her dirty clothes. The jeans might be okay – they were just smothered in dust, but her t-shirt was irredeemable. She should probably just go ahead and burn it.

A knock came at the door. "Faith?"

"Yeah, Spike?" She snatched up the towel again.

"I went through the guest rooms – found some stuff that might be in your size. Since it's our fault that your other clothes got ruined."

Faith opened the door to a sheepish looking vampire holding a bundle of clothes in his hands. Pinning her towel in place with one elbow, she accepted the offering. "Thanks."

"Captain Forehead and the Lumberjack went out to try and find a gas station to fill up the Impala and the suburban."

The Slayer snorted. "That'll end well."

Spike's eyebrows danced wickedly. "I read 'em the riot act beforehand, don't worry."

A sarcastic smile curved up the corners of her mouth. "No way they can get into trouble then."

"See? Your pal Spike's got everything handled. Speaking of . . ." The vampire dug in his pocket, then brandished two of Faith's favorite things: a bottle of black nail polish and a pack of cigarettes. "Hurry up and get your clothes on. I'll grab the first-aid kit for that bump on your head."

"Don't tell the others, but right now I kind of love you," she smirked, closing the door. "Be right out."

* * *

When Angel and Dean returned from their foraging expedition, they found Faith and Spike sitting cross-legged on the front porch, smoking. Faith's hand lay on Spike's knee, and he was painting her nails with an air of forced concentration. His were already decorated to shiny black perfection. They were singing again, somehow forming the music around their cigarettes.

"In 1814 we took a little trip  
Along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississip.  
We took a little bacon and we took a little beans  
And we caught the bloody British in the town of New Orleans.

. . . .

Well, we fired our guns, and the British kept a'comin'.  
There wasn't quite as many as there was a while ago.  
We fired once more, and they began to runnin' on  
Down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico."

"Not again," Angel groaned theatrically, setting his can of gasoline down on the front step. "Not again. Faith, he was singing that all the way from Mississippi. Can't you make him stop?"

"Or at least sing a better version?" wondered Dean as he finished filling up his baby.

Spike's metaphorical ears perked up. "There's other versions?"

"Yeah." Dean thought for a moment. To be honest, Spike hadn't been the only one with "The Battle for New Orleans" on the brain. And the hunter had had quite a long, long time while working the clean up crews to do some thinking. Also on his little errand with Angel, he'd thought up another verse. Frankenvamp didn't talk much. He cleared his throat. "Yeah. Like this one:

In late October we took a little trip  
Led by a vampire Slayer down the mighty Mississip.  
We took a little whiskey and we gave up on stayin' clean  
And we caught the frakkin' vampires in the town of New Orleans."

Both Angel and Spike turned to frown at him, less than pleased. Faith laughed, and her cigarette nearly tumbled out of her mouth. "Keep going," she said, clapping her hands and almost marring her newly painted nails.

Dean flashed his most charming grin, and his green eyes gleamed. "If the lady insists. Ehem.

. . . .

Well, we fired crossbows, and the vampires kept a'comin.  
There wasn't nigh as many as there was the night before.  
Faith fired once more, and they began to runnin'  
Down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico.

. . . .

Captain Forehead said we could take 'em by surprise  
If we didn't stake their leader 'til Faithy looked 'im in the eye.  
We held our breath 'til she'd see'd his face quite well  
Then we lit a dozen fires and sent 'em straight to Hell,

. . . .

Yeah, they ran through the columns and they ran through the cloisters  
And they ran through the chapel where a vampire shouldn't go  
They ran so fast, but still the Slayer sent them  
Down the river Styx to the mouth of Hell below."

His performance was met with shocked silence from the vampires and continued applause from Faith.

"I'd kiss you, if I wasn't afraid I'd fall over when I stood up."

Dean walked over and sat on the wooden planks next to her. "How's the head?" he asked, eyeing her bandaged cut with concern.

"Aches. You think we got 'em all, back there?"

Spike shrugged. "Dunno. It looked like it. Hold still there, pet. I've just got the one last nail to do."

Dread crept into Faith's heart. She had so been looking forward to going home, sleeping in an actual bed, taking an actual shower, eating actual food. "How long do you think it'll take to clear them out?"

"You don't need to worry about that," said Angel firmly. "Spike and I, we just got here two days ago. We can stay for another week or so, do a bit more clean up. I think we got the worst of the lot at the cathedral, but in case anyone else shows up thinking to take New Orleans, we can deal with them. You should go back to Cleveland."

Spike nodded emphatically. "You smell like a swamp," he added, helpful as ever, as he blew on her pinky to make it dry faster. "Besides, Robin's been texting us all day demanding to know when you're going to be back. Apparently, they've just reassigned a new Slayerette to Cleveland, and she's quite the brat."

"Oh," replied Faith woodenly. She hadn't looked at her phone in two days, except to coordinate with Angel, not since Buddy died. Secretly, she exhaled with relief. Bratty Slayerettes she could handle. You just had to knock sense into them the right way. At this point, she'd happily take any assignment that got her far, far away from Louisiana. "Dean?"

The hunter glanced at his watch. "We leave now, make a quick stop at the camp to get our gear and give these guys their . . . their blood, we could probably make it into Cleveland by eight tomorrow night – I mean tonight. It's a sixteen hour drive. But first, I want to make sure that you don't have a concussion." He held up three fingers. "How many of these do you see?"

She batted his hand away. "Three. Jeez. Look, I'm fine. And even if I wasn't, we'd still be better off stopping at a real hospital somewhere that isn't New Orleans."

"Okay." His surrender was completely worth it, just for the smile that lit her face from ear to ear. And to be brutally honest, Dean had rather had his fill of the Big Easy.

* * *

**October 20th, 2005, Camp Premiere, St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana, 6:15 a.m.**

While the Slayer and her vampire sidekicks snuck back into their tent and emptied it out, Dean remained with the Impala. He needed to put a little more gas in the tank if they wanted to make it through Mississippi without running on fumes. The hunter'd had the forethought to call ahead, and Jim met him by the gas supply truck used to fill up the camp's vehicles.

"You get it all taken care of?" the older man asked.

Nodding, Dean explained that night's events. When he finished, the two men leaned against the side of the supply truck in companionable silence.

"Well. . . ," Jim drawled when the pump handle clicked to signal that it was done. "Night's safe again in New Orleans?"

The younger hunter snorted, replacing the gas cap on his baby. "Night's never safe anywhere." He ran a hand through his hair. "But I think it's as good here as it's gonna get for a while. At least until this city's back on her feet again. You could head back north whenever you wanted, probably."

"I think I'll stay for a little bit longer," said the pastor with a smile. "Smooth out some of the wrinkles my high-flying second cousin seems to have left in his wake."

Dean snorted at the truth in that comment. "Thanks. For calling me down here, for helping us out with everything."

Extending his hand for Jim to shake, he was mildly surprised when the pastor took his hand and pulled him into a quick, firm embrace. Jim hadn't hugged him since he was twelve or thirteen. It felt weird. A good kind of weird, though.

"I'm proud of you, Dean." Jim clapped him on the shoulder as they broke apart. "You're a good man. Give your dad my regards."

He could hear footsteps approaching and the faint sounds of teasing voices. Must be Faith and the Fang Gang, on their way back. Giving Jim a thumbs up, he opened the trunk of the Impala and started rearranging the muddy stakes littering his weapons cache. "You got it."

* * *

**October 24th, 2005, Cleveland, Ohio**

"Dean? Did you use the last of the shampoo and forget to tell me?" A sopping wet Slayer poked her head out the bathroom door and bellowed her demand to the entire apartment.

Her occasional work partner and current houseguest called back a response from the comfort of the couch and Black Hawk Down on TNT. "Oops."

The bathroom door slammed, and the shower returned to full power. Smirking, Dean settled himself even more comfortably on the couch and turned the volume up on the television. It had been three days since their return from Louisiana. Well, two and a half days really, since they had spent the first thirteen hours passed out in Faith's queen-sized bed. You never knew how nice a real mattress was, until you were living on an army cot for three weeks. There were new kinks in the hunter's back that were never going to work themselves out now. And he was only twenty-six.

In the last couple of days, they'd done a lot of laundry and a little shopping. Faith had taken Dean to one of the Slayerette training sessions and proceeded to use him as an object lesson. "Watch, girls," she warned the teenagers before attacking the hunter.

She still wasn't back to batting a thousand, and she'd told him not to take it easy on her. So he did his best to balance her request with his personal ethics, going after her with a fury while avoiding her bruises. Faith lost the sparring match within two minutes, which had, of course, been the point.

Allowing the man to give her a hand up, she addressed the mini-Slayers. "You think that gifts equal talent. You think you've got power. Well, maybe someday you will. The people that you fight, they're not relying on superhuman strength. They're relying on skill and training and practice _,_ practice _, practice._  Some of them might even be stronger than you. And until you let go of your ego and get to work, they'll always be better than you. Because they've got dedication and drive. Understood?"

The half-dozen young women nodded quietly.

"Good." Faith plopped her rear end on a convenient tombstone. "Cause you're each going to go one on one with Mr. Winchester, here, and then we're going to all talk about what you need to improve. Lily, you're up first. Becka, on deck."

Along with the fighting, the shopping, and the neurotic cleaning of the apartment as well as both of their cars (after Premiere, Faith never wanted to see dirt or mud inside her house, ever, ever again), they had even managed to work in a couple of games of pool. His wallet now replete with cash, Dean was planning on taking the Slayer out dancing that night. Or maybe the next one.

The way things had been going the last couple of days, if Faith wasn't committed to Slayer training, they tended to spend the evenings watching a movie on the television or trying out a new burger joint that one of the Slayerettes liked. Dean figured that they were getting old. Which was embarrassing and sucked, because he was only twenty-six. Or, which was just as likely, they were still recovering from the sh-tstorm of New Orleans.

The shower water shut off. Faith emerged from the bathroom shortly afterwards, clad in sweats and a ratty t-shirt, her wet hair pulled back into a bun. "I can't believe you used up the shampoo," she groused, shoving his feet off her couch and plopping herself down in their place.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'll go buy more after the movie. Happy?"

The Slayer curled up against the arm of the couch. "And I think I'm almost out of Tide."

"We can get that, too."

"Mmm. You hear from your dad? I know you left him a message earlier…"

"Nah. He's probably still right in the thick of that disappearance case in California. I'll call him in the morning. Now can we please finish the movie?"

* * *

**October 25th, 2005, Cleveland, Ohio**

Morning dawned bright and early and found the two sleeping figures sprawled out next to one another. The man was the first to wake, and he stepped out into the hallway to make a phone call. While he dialed out, his thoughts roamed freely.

Something had changed out there, at Camp Premiere, but Dean couldn't quite put his finger on why. That second night back, when they weren't so tired that they were seeing double, he'd offered to move to the couch. Faith told him to not be stupid and to shut up so that she could fall asleep.

It was an unnecessary comment. Dean would have shut up anyway. He had gotten used to the sound of her breathing next to him and didn't especially want to move from the extremely comfortable bed to the slightly less comfortable couch. But he thought it was the decent thing to make the offer.

The call rang to voicemail. Beginning to frown, the hunter punched in the number again. Not answering the phone was typical John Winchester when he got caught up on the trail. But two days in a row?

_Come on, Dad. Pick up. This isn't like you. Pick up._ The phone simply went to voicemail. Again. Dean called twice more, getting voicemail each time. A sneaking thought, desperate and worried, crept into his mind.  _Dad's in trouble_.

Dean tried to shake the feeling. He paced the living room for five minutes and called his father's other phone numbers. No one picked up at any of them. The hunter started to panic.

Panic was a tricky thing. It could send you into a frenzy, make you lose the whole farm's worth of chickens. And sometimes, it did the opposite, bringing your thoughts into a dreadful, perfect clarity. This time, panic did the latter.

_Sam_. Dean clung onto that thought, that name, like a lifeline. Dad was in California. Sam was in California. He'd grab Sam, just in case the disappearances were too much to handle alone, they'd go find Dad, and everything would work out just fine. It had to.

"You okay?" It was the Slayer, watching him from the hallway with dark eyes.

He turned to her, and the words came out strangled. "I need to go. My dad."

Faith nodded in understanding. "You get your clothes, I'll get your stuff from the bathroom."

By the time Dean had grabbed his clothing from the washing machine and tossed them back into his duffel, she had already thrown his toothbrush and shaving things into a plastic bag and was packing another one full of snacks – a couple of apples, a big bag of pretzels, a handful of Snickers bars. She met him at the front door and handed over his things.

"Sorry I'm always running out on you," Dean said shortly. He could barely spare the thought for words. His body was acting on its own, careening into full panic-mode. The only cure was to get on the road, to have his hands on the wheel and his foot on the accelerator and to race as fast as he could towards his family. Nothing else would help.

Adding his toiletries to the duffel, he shoved his arm through the straps of the snack bag. He pulled the door open and hesitated. "Thanks."

The Slayer grinned, but her gaze was concerned. "Here if you need me. Go find your dad."

Dean had no good reply for this. He nodded once and was gone.

 


	31. Operator, Information?

**November 7** **th** **, 2005, Cleveland, Ohio**

"So. How long are you going to be gone for?"

Faith Lehane looked up from her suitcase, half-filled with underwear, boots, and whatever mildly conservative clothing she could find in her closet. Lily and Becka, her two favorite mini-Me's, were sprawled across her bedroom carpet, pretending to be doing their homework. Perhaps 'favorite' was stretching things. 'Least-likely-to-do-something-incredibly-stupid' was more accurate.

In a defiant moment of "we can have our cake and eat it, too," the girls had decided to stick around Cleveland after graduating high school the previous spring. Becka wanted to become an engineer, and she was doing her prereqs at Cleveland State. As for Lily, she had gotten into Case Western Reserve on a vocal music scholarship. When she wasn't sequestered in practice rooms, singing an infinite number of scales and arpeggios, she also took a class or two in medieval history.

How they made college and Slaying work was a riddle, but they were currently passing their classes and making their scheduled patrol nights. If those nights tended to involve belting show-tunes and integrals solved out loud in a darkened cemetery, well, subtlety had never been a mandatory Slayer attribute.

"Few months, at least," Faith answered. She shoved her clothes down into the black roller bag to make more space. "You two still good to look in on here?"

Becka turned the page in her calculus textbook. "Yes…" she said innocently and scribbled down the basic idea for a proof. Why teachers made you figure out the proofs to theorems that were long since proven, she would never know.

"A couple of times a month is fine," the older woman called over her shoulder, stepping into the bathroom to find her razor. It was one of those fancy Venus things that Willow swore by – and had cost her ten dollars. No way was she going to replace it while it still worked. "Just clean up after yourself if you throw any parties."

Aha! There it was. It had wormed its way behind her shampoo bottle. Faith snatched it up and packed it into her toiletry bag along with a new toothbrush, some floss, and a stick of deodorant.

The Slayerettes giggled, the high-pitched sound easily reaching the hallway where Faith was pulling her jeans out of the dryer. Last night in the U.S., last load of laundry. Even though she hadn't had anything to eat since lunch, she had heartburn. Probably her nerves beginning to act up. Nothing serious, but unpleasant nevertheless.

"Hey, Faith, your phone's going off!" hollered Lily from the bedroom. For a soprano, she sure knew how to bellow.

"Who is it?" She still had four pairs of jeans to fold and was in no hurry to talk to anyone. Unless. . .

"It's Dean!"

Well . . . if it was Dean, and the girls answered the phone . . . Faith abandoned her half-folded pants on top of the washer and hurried to get her cell from Becka before any insanity could ensue. "Do your homework," she said forcefully, shooing the Slayerettes back into her bedroom and closing the door.

Having put a good wall between herself and the likely eavesdroppers, the Slayer flipped open the phone. "Hello?"

She could hear the sounds of a television – cheesy orchestrated music and the clang of steel on steel. Dean's voice was muffled, almost softer than the background noise. "Hey. How've you been?"

"Okay." Faith pinned the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she returned to folding clothes. "Did you find your dad?"

"No." The hunter hesitated, then continued. "It was a mess, Faith."

"Yeah?"

He exhaled slowly. If she closed her eyes, she could picture him, sitting on some motel bed, some forgotten Hollywood classic playing on the television. She could see the wrinkles arcing across his forehead, the way his mouth tightened and then relaxed as he decided how much to tell her. "So . . . I picked up my brother on the way down to Jericho."

"And how did that go?" Faith struggled to hide her shock. In the two years she'd known Dean Winchester, she had never heard him actually talk to his little brother, much less go and commandeer him for a monster hunt.

Dean laughed without humor. "'Bout how you'd expect. He's shacked up with some girl – nice girl, blonde, great legs – anyway, Jess – that's her name, Jess – didn't know about the family business, so it took a little convincing to get Sammy to come along. We leave, head to Jericho, figure out it's a Woman in White, nothing major . . . Oh, except she possessed my car, and I had to jump off a bridge to keep from being roadkilled. And then the police decided they didn't like me too well, so they dragged me into the sheriff's office. Oh, and yeah, my dad had already been and gone, so there was that, too."

The Slayer had a feeling this story wasn't quite over yet. "And?" she prompted.

He huffed, more irritated with the tale he was telling than with her. "And then I took Sam back to Stanford. Just like I promised. Dropped him off. Dad left us some coordinates – I was gonna track him down there, meet up with Sam later. Or never. I don't know which. But something . . . something felt off."

"Off?"

"Yeah, like . . ." Dean's voice trailed away. "You ever have a moment where you know somebody's in trouble, deep in your bones, but you've got no outright reasons for it?"

"You mean intuition?"

"Guess so. Anyway, I knew something was up, so I parked the car and ran into Sam's place. Good thing I did, too. The whole apartment just went up in flames about thirty seconds after I got the front door open. I busted into his room, had to drag him out. Jess was burning on the ceiling."

"Ohh . . . like?" She didn't dare finish the thought out loud.  _Like your mom?_

"Exactly like."

Faith's stomach cringed. Fire was not a good way to go. She hadn't told anyone yet, but the burning vampires of New Orleans had been popping up in her dreams from time to time. "I'm . . . I'm sorry, Dean. That . . . that's awful."

"Yep. That was . . . five days ago? Haven't found a single lead – think we're gonna take off pretty soon, head to Colorado, see if we can find Dad. He's been hunting the thing that killed my mom for as long as I can remember. Maybe he knows where to look. I sure as hell don't."

"Where's Sam now?"

He had been forgetting himself, talking at an almost normal volume. Dean dropped back into a murmur. "He's in the shower. Spends almost as long in there as you do."

"What time is it over there?"

"Six?"

"Bit early for a shower."

"It's been a long few days," the hunter replied tersely. "He's . . . I don't know how to . . . G-d, Faith, this is so frakked up."

The Slayer folded her last pair of jeans and set them on top of her pile. "Are  _you_ okay, Dean?"

"Dandy." She could hear the creaking of a motel bed as he resettled himself. "So . . . I was thinking, after Colorado, once we find Dad and get things figured out, maybe we could all meet up? You'd like Sam. Hell, Sam'll probably wet his pants when he finds out Slayers are a thing. He's kind of a dork like that." Dean's voice crept up hopefully at the end.

Crap. Faith had been hoping to avoid this part of the conversation. "I wish I could, Dean, but I'm heading to London tomorrow. Giles has got this rogue Slayer issue, and he figures I'm the girl for the job. It looks like it might turn into an undercover op, last for a while . . ."

"Awesome." The optimism disappeared, leaving one exhausted, disgruntled hunter. "You got your passport and your ticket out of here, then."

"Dean – "

"It's fine. I didn't realize you were so close to leaving is all."

"Look, I'm still gonna have my phone and everything. I made Giles promise to extend my plan or fix it or something. We can still talk. I just . . . I'll just be on the other side of the Atlantic."

"I gotta go."

"Dean –"

He cut her off. "Sam's out of the shower. I'll call you later this week. Fly safe, okay?"

"Okay. I hope you find your dad."

"Thanks." Dean sighed heavily. "I hope so, too."

* * *

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: December 14, 2005 at 9:30 a.m.  
** **Subject: Happy Birthday  
** **Attached: freakingiantcake . jpg**

Hey,

Haven't heard from you in a bit. How's London?

P.S. What are you, twenty-five now?

. . . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: December 14, 2005 at 4:00 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Happy Birthday**

Help! I'm being Pretty Woman-ed over here.

Haha. Kidding. But not really. Giles has been trying to turn me into a British socialite so I can make friends with the target.

P.S. Yep, twenty-five. And not a drop of alcohol or a cigarette in sight. :(

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: December 14, 2005 at 6:30 p.m.  
** **Subject: Pretty Woman**

Pretty Slayer, walkin' down the street. Pretty Slayer, the kind I'd like to meet.

Who's your target?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: December 15, 2005 at 5:04 a.m.  
** **Subject: Dark Slayer**

That's what Andrew calls me, anyway. The target's name is Genevieve Savidge. Apparently she wants to kill Buffy and bring about the apocalypse.

How are you doing?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: December 15, 2005 at 7:30 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Dark Slayer**

Two things. One, aren't you always complaining about Buffy? Two, what's the fine for overuse of the word 'apocalypse'? Cuz I don't think your lot actually knows what that term means.

I'm fine. Still haven't found Dad. Sam talked me into buying a suit last week. And I got on a plane.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: December 15, 2005 at 4:40 p.m.  
** **Subject: Plane, huh?**

One, I've got the right to complain about Buffy. She's . . . well, she's Buffy. You'd have to know her. But that still doesn't mean I'm going to let some newbie gut her. Two, I totally agree. Can't get the Council of Old Guys with Mustaches to listen on that one, though.

Does that mean you're coming to see me? In a suit? My James Bond fantasies are coming true…

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: December 15, 2005 at 10:00 p.m.  
** **Subject: No More Planes  
** **Attached: nomoresuitsforyou . jpg**

Sorry. The plane was a one time deal. Trying to save 400 people from a demon that like to crash planes.

Sam made me take a picture in that suit. Think it's worth not throwing in the dumpster?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: December 16, 2005 at 3:00 a.m.  
** **Subject: Hot Damn**

Now I remember why I call you Pretty Boy. Keep the suit.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: December 16, 2005 at 8:15 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Hot Damn**

When does your cover start?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: December 16, 2005 at 12:00 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Hot Damn**

Whenever Giles says I'm ready. He says I'm still too flower girl Eliza Doolittle and not enough Audrey Hepburn. Whatever the hell that means. I think they're movies?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: December 16, 2005 at 12:05 p.m.  
** **Subject: Uh Oh**

Sam wants to know who I keep emailing at weird hours all week. He's a bit jumpy – can't blame him. I'll call you tonight?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: December 16, 2005 at 12:10 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Uh Oh**

*thumbs up* It's a date. Wear the suit. :p

. . . .

* * *

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 8:13 a.m.  
** **Subject: Happy Birthday, Old Man!**

See above

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 8:25 a.m.  
** **Subject: Seriously?**

That's what my brother said this morning. R u 2 on the same wavelength?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 8:28 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Seriously?**

Uhhhhh no. Weird. Any news on your dad?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 8:35 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Seriously?**

No. He still won't answer his phone. I'm sure he's got reasons.

How's the transformation going?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 8:40 a.m.  
** **Subject: Correction**

That's the Honorable Hope Lyonne to you, mister.

Sucks about your dad. My mom . . . disappeared . . . around the time I turned 16. She didn't have any good reasons. Just couldn't take care of either her or me anymore, I guess.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 8:42 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Correction**

You never said.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 8:50 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Correction**

It's just another layer in the river of crap that ended me up doing a stint in the pen. Didn't think it was that big of a deal.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 8:53 a.m.  
** **Subject: Still**

It's your mom, Faith.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 8:57 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Still**

She left me for some drug dealer boyfriend, ended up a hooker, and got shot by some guy. Druggie, john, gang-banger . . . they never figured out whodunnit.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 9:00 a.m.  
** **Subject: I'm Sorry**

I really am.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 9:05 a.m.  
** **Subject: I dunno**

I skipped the funeral. Too pissed at her for leaving. On the plus side, I'm pretty sure your dad didn't take off because he's a crack-whore.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 9:10 a.m.  
** **Subject: R U Ok?**

Seriously.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 9:13 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: R U Ok?**

Sorry. It's your birthday. I'm ruining it. I suck at this kind of thing.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 9:16 a.m.  
** **Subject: Hey**

You're not ruining anything. I'm still lounging in bed here. Look, you remembered that it was my birthday. That counts.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 9:20 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Hey  
** **Attached: greendressofdoom . jpg**

Happy Birthday, then. ;)

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 9:25 a.m.  
** **Subject: Wow**

Whoa, girl. You . . . you should definitely keep that dress.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 9:28 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Wow**

Thanks. Big show starts tomorrow.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: January 24, 2006 at 9:30 a.m.  
** **Subject: Good luck**

Not that you'll need it. They won't know what hit 'em.

. . . .

* * *

**March 9** **th** **, 2006, Hatfield, Herefordshire, England**

Hope Lyonne stepped into Gigi's palatial guest bathroom and gently tugged her elbow length satin green gloves off of her hands. She slowly began unbuttoning the series of minuscule ivory buttons on the back of her matching emerald dress. Just when she got to the hard-to-reach part, right between her shoulder blades, her new best friend pounded on the bathroom door. Smiling, Hope opened the door to let in the whirlwind of fabric and emotion that was Genevieve Savidge.

"Well, I believe that party was a smashing success," gloated Gigi triumphantly. She had already changed from her ice blue ball gown into pajamas and a robe of violet silk. "Here, allow me." Her long, delicate fingers picked up where Hope had left off, undoing the buttons all the way down the other woman's back.

"Thanks." Hope slid the dress down over her hips and onto its hanger. She took her time donning an expensive plaid pajama set. This wasn't the first time Genevieve had seen her in her underwear, and it was unlikely to be the last.

"So. Did you see anyone you thought was handsome?" enquired the heiress next to her, busy examining her face for invisible defects in the large bathroom mirror.

Laughing, Hope hung her gown on the back of the door. She fiddled in the cabinet above the porcelain toilet in search of toothpaste. "There were a few with potential," she said at last.

Gigi raised an exquisitely plucked black eyebrow. "You don't say," she drawled. "The incredible Hope Lyonne with the impeccable taste is willing to admit that some of the most eligible bachelors in all of the United Kingdom have potential. I should find a window, glance outside. My dear, today is the day that pigs receive their wings and take to the skies."

The only possible response to this was to roll her eyes and pause in her toothbrushing. "Hysterical, Gigi. Where do you come up with this stuff?" Hope asked rhetorically, tucking her toothbrush into the side of her mouth so as not to spray white foam everywhere across the immaculate bathroom.

"Decades of practice, my dear." Gigi winked conspiratorially and patted her friend on the arm. "Come see me in my room when you finish up, and we'll discuss these men with . . . potential."

She glided from the bathroom, closing the door elegantly behind her. Whew. Brushing her teeth again, Faith dropped her mask and gazed at herself in the mirror over the counter. The party had actually been quite fun. She wasn't lying about that. The food and alcohol were fantastic. They always were, whenever Gigi threw a shindig. There had been dancing again tonight – not the grindy kind of grotty club dancing that Faith was familiar with, but real, actual ballroom dancing. She was slowly learning the steps. Waltz, foxtrot, a few others. At least the guys here were mostly decent and didn't try to feel you up.

This had been supposed to be a quick job. In, kill the target, and out again before anyone knew what hit them. But it had gotten complicated. It had taken a few weeks before she had even five minutes alone with Gigi. Ten more days before Gigi invited her to stay at her mansion. And by that time, it was too late to be impartial about things. Hope Lyonne was Gigi's new best friend.

As for Faith, she really liked Gigi. Her sense of humor, her bravery, her confidence. She was fun. Sure, Genevieve was planning on killing Buffy. The Slayer had overheard enough conversations between Gigi and her Irish warlock Watcher Roden to know about that. But then again, most of Faith's closest friends had plotted to kill Buffy at one point or another – herself included.

Being seduced by the darkness and possessing the desire to punch Little Miss Perfect right in the middle of her blond face were understandable. Faith could overlook those. Unfortunately, Gigi also had the horrible habit of hunting and killing other Slayers once a month or so. And that could not be forgiven.

Spitting the toothpaste out of her mouth, Faith rinsed her toothbrush off in the sink. Her hand clenched around the golden handle of the faucet. This morning, she had gotten another, panicked email from Giles. Rona, one of the Slayers who had been at the Destruction of Sunnyhell, had been on vacation in London when she was found murdered. An axe to the chest, if the medical examiner knew his weapons. All signs pointed straight to Gigi.

Vacation was ending, Giles had said forcefully. She could read his fury, grief, and disappointment in every line of that email. It was time for her to do her job, before any more Slayers died.

_Tomorrow_ , Faith promised herself, gazing resolutely into the mirror.  _I'll do it tomorrow. Not tonight._

Gathering her gloves and ball gown, the Slayer carried them into her bedroom, an ostentatious affair with sweeping high ceilings and a heavy oaken fourposter. She hung the dress in the giant walk-in closet and placed the folded gloves inside the top drawer of her dresser. While she stood there, contemplating the green satin, something buzzed energetically.

Crap. Faith dug in her underwear drawer, flicking through lacy underthings without so much as a second glance, until she found her scratched, much-abused cell phone. She glared at the inexpensive piece of electronics, determined not to answer but to turn the phone off instantly. The name on the caller ID forced her to pause.

Pursing her lips, the Slayer checked that the door to the walk-in closet was closed tightly. Alone in the dark, she moved to the furthest corner of the closet and sat down. Faith opened the phone. "Why are you calling me?" she hissed in an angry whisper.

"Five minutes. Can you give me five minutes?" The husky male voice on the other end of the line hesitated for a brief moment, then added a searing, "Please."

"Where's Sam?"

"He went on a food'n'gas run. He won't be back for a half hour."

Faith wedged her back and hip even further into the corner and leaned her head, still in its intricate up-do, against the wall. "What's going on?"

"Guess who's wanted for murder by the police?"

It wasn't funny, but the Slayer snorted anyway. "Join the club. What happened?"

He explained in jerking, halting, fragmented sentences. A trip out of their way to St. Louis to help out a friend of Sam's had gone belly up. There was a shapeshifter in town. Four days and three bodies later, and when he finally caught up with the damn thing, it was trying to murder Sam – while wearing Dean's face.

"So I shot myself," he concluded. There was a gurgling sound from the other end of the phone as he swallowed something down. Probably not water, if Faith's suspicions had any merit. "You . . . you have any idea how weird that is, killing something that looks exactly like you? Plus, now I'm officially dead. And a murderer. Legally."

"That sounds like a mind-frak and a half." Faith reflected momentarily on that bizarre twenty-four hours when she had been Buffy Summers and tried to beat the life out of her own body.

"Yeah."

"I know some good lawyers – they're evil, but effective. They could probably make the arrest record and the police files just . . . go away."

"Expensive?"

"And then some. But I can talk to Angel, see if he can pull any strings . . ."

Dean scoffed. "What's the point? It's not like it would change" –

"Hope, what are you doing in here?" The closet door sprang open, and light flooded the dark space. Faith blinked painfully against the sudden brightness. She fumbled with the phone, attempting to shut it, but Gigi swept in with her loud personality and seized it. "Who are you talking to?"

The older Slayer scrambled to her feet. "No one."

Genevieve eyed the caller ID, which displayed both a name and a picture. In this case, the picture was a close-up of Dean in his faux-FBI suit. "Hope, you sly thing!" she exclaimed, mildly surprised and pleased. "Pretty Boy? It is certainly apropos. Those eyes . . . No wonder you only saw potential tonight." She pressed the 'speaker' button on the phone. "Hello, Hope's pretty boy," she drawled in her poshly accented tones.

"Who's this?" demanded Dean suspiciously.

_"An American?"_  Gigi mouthed laughingly at Hope. " _I_  am Lady Genevieve Savidge. Who are you?"

Hope snatched the cell phone back and took it off speaker, visibly flustered. "His name is Dean. I met him on a trip to Los Angeles about six months ago. The friend I was traveling with wanted to sample the local culture, and she took me to a dive bar. It was dull . . . until he showed up." She made to hang up the phone, but Genevieve held out a hand to stop her.

"No, no, my dear. By all means, continue to converse with your paramour." She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "No need to lurk in here, by the way. We can discuss the party in the morning. I thought we might go for a ride?"

"That sounds lovely." Hope's heart was pounding in her chest. She couldn't quite believe she was about to get away with this. "What time?"

"Nine will suit, I think. Enjoy your call." Somehow, Gigi managed to make the last word sound incredibly salacious.

"Thanks." Hope waited for the closet door to close once more before she relaxed and lifted the mobile back to her ear. "That was close. I'm pretty sure she thinks I was having phone sex. Or that I'm going to."

"We could, if you want," said Dean, the patron saint of casual sex.

The Slayer smiled in the darkness. "Ehhh, I've got a headache from all the bobby pins in my hair. Unless you can manage a transatlantic scalp massage, I'll pass. Can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I'll take story-time instead. Tell me more about St. Louis and the shifter?"

 


	32. When Faithy Met Sammy, pt 1

**May 19** **th** **, 2006, Cleveland, Ohio, 8:00 p.m.**

"Dude. Isn't it a little early to be stopping for the night?"

For the last few days, ever since the case with telekinetic Max, Sam had been nasty and irritable. He had been so determined to save the kid and now seemed to be taking Max's suicide awful personal. Not that Dean believed in any of that psychology empathy transference crap. He was just getting tired of walking on eggshells because Sammy was feeling pissy.

Ignoring his younger brother, the hunter eased his car between two junkers in the dive bar parking lot. He peered at the neon sign on the side of the dilapidated brick building.  _Becky's Bar & Grill. _Sure enough, they were in the right place.

"You hungry?" he asked, a smile curving up the corners of his mouth.

"I could eat," replied Sam sullenly. His stomach growled, giving him away and breaking the tension. Both brothers laughed, Dean rolling his eyes and Sam looking sheepish.

"Come on. Let's go. Get some salad or something into that bottomless pit you call a stomach." The older man opened his car door and headed confidently in the direction of the bar. Sam would follow. He always did.

Becky's was dimly lit and packed with bodies. Co-eds crowded onto the small dance floor, writhing against one another. A group of guys in the back were playing darts near the doors to what must be the bathrooms. Dean waited for Sam to catch up before flagging down a blonde waitress in a tight, low red shirt that showed plenty of cleavage. Jamie, according to her name tag, directed the brothers to an empty table near the bar, took their drink order, and handed them menus.

Sam flipped the laminated card stock over and scanned the back. "You're in luck, Dean. They serve marinara sauce and mozzarella cheese on their hamburgers."

"What? Where?" His eyes lit up. He hadn't actually seen that one yet.

"Here." Sam reached across the table to point out the 'Italian burger' on his brother's menu.

"Awesome. Grilled mushrooms, onions, mozzarella, marinara sauce . . . what's not to love? And you can get  _bacon_?" Mouth watering, Dean set the menu back on the table. "That's it. I want the Italian with extra bacon. And a beer. And maybe some curly fries." He clambered off of his bar stool. "I'm gonna hit the head. You order for me?"

"Sure."

"Thanks, Sammy." The hunter winked and headed for the bathrooms back by the darts.

"It's Sam," Sam called half-heartedly after him. It was a losing battle, and he had begun to accept that. Deep down, he really didn't mind the nickname. Coming from Dean, it was familiar, a reminder of what was and what had been. Still, he thought it best not to encourage his older brother. Dean was incorrigible enough as it was.

The bathrooms were dingier than the rest of the bar, but Dean had seen far worse. Taking care not to step in anything, he washed his hands quickly and returned to their table. Although he could probably trust Sam not to screw his order up, the hunter rather fancied another chat with the curvaceous Jamie.

As he approached the table, he saw her. Five-five, slender, her lower body encased in tight black pants, wearing a silvery halter-top that left the tan skin of her midriff and back gloriously bare. Wavy dark hair floated down to her shoulders. Thick layers of charcoal eyeshadow and black eyeliner surrounded her eyes, and her lips were stained a dangerous ruby red. A single black tattoo, all spirals and barbed wire, adorned her right bicep.

She stood beside his empty seat, leaning towards Sam. Dean could not hear what was being said over the noise of the bar, but he could discern her tone, playful and sultry. His little brother shifted uncomfortably backwards on his barstool in an attempt to get away. The hunter chuckled. Honestly, he couldn't blame Sammy too much. Faith tended to have that effect on people, especially when she chose to act predatory.

The Slayer must have heard his laugh, for she turned. Brown eyes met green. For a weightless moment, they stared at one another, and then Faith was closing the distance between them. One of her hands latched onto his arm. The other wrapped itself around the back of his neck, dragging him down to her level. Her lips met his, forceful and demanding.

Dean closed his eyes. She tasted like smoke and whiskey. His hands moved instinctively, one finding the bared skin on her back, the second winding through the thick masses of hair at the base of her skull. He pulled Faith's body to his until she was pressed against him from shoulder to knees. Unlike his recent encounter with Cassie, this was simple. No confusing mix of regret, anger, or bitterness. Just straightforward, uncomplicated feeling. He could lose himself in this.

All too soon, Faith stepped backwards, ending the kiss. But she did not release him. The hand on his bicep trailed down and gripped his wrist. Relentless, she tugged him towards the dance floor, her little display not quite finished yet.

"Hang on a sec, sweetheart." Meeting his brother's nonplussed gaze, the hunter shrugged a silent 'What can you do?' He pointed with his free hand to the menus still on the table and then at his stomach. "Sam, flag me down when the food's here?"

Sam's eyebrows had crept nearly all the way up into his floppy hairline, but an indulgent half-smile lingered on his face. "You got it."

The preliminaries taken care of, Dean allowed Faith to pull him onto the dance floor. No doubt, Sam would locate a book in his laptop bag and not even notice that he was gone. The music was fast and thumping. Faith led the way into the middle of the early-twenties crowd. Her back to him, she placed his hands on her hips and began moving, gyrating wildly to the driving bass.

"That was interesting," he said into her ear, to be heard over the raging speakers. "We should say hello like that more often."

Faith continued dancing, heedless of other eyes on them. "You owe me a dance, remember?"

After several minutes, the song ended, much to the displeasure of the crowd. The DJ came on over the bar's loudspeaker. "The next one's going to be a throwback to yesteryear. Let's slow this down, people."

Slowing it down was right. A single female voice soared over her accompaniment of piano chords, an acoustic guitar, the occasional hi-hat, and the gentle rustle of brushes across a snare drum. Its steady four-count beat forced the majority of the students to stop grinding against one another. Instead, the dance floor was soon filled with the awkward bear-hug sidestep that populated most high school proms.

_Tonight you're mine completely.  
_ _You give your love so sweetly.  
_ _Tonight the light of love is in your eyes.  
_ _But will you love me tomorrow?_

Turning around easily in the man's grasp, Faith locked her hands around his neck. She tossed her mane of hair backwards as they revolved slowly in the packed space. "This sounds familiar. Like something my Aunt Stella used to sing when I was a kid."

Dean silently filed the existence of Faith's Aunt Stella away in the back of his mind.

_Is this a lasting treasure  
_ _Or just a moment's pleasure?  
_ _Can I believe the magic of your sighs?  
_ _Will you still love me tomorrow?_

"You know, when I said I wanted you to meet my brother, this wasn't quite what I meant."

The Slayer tilted her head to look up into the hunter's face. She smiled wolfishly. "You mean you didn't get a kick out of that peep show?"

It was impossible not to grin back. "You know I did. I was just wondering . . . why?"

Faith shrugged. "Why not? It seemed like fun."

"One thing's for sure: he's not going to let me live this one down."

"And to think . . . we're just getting started."

_Tonight with words unspoken,  
_ _You say that I'm the only one.  
_ _But will my heart be broken  
_ _When the night meets the morning sun?_   


"What do you mean?"

"This place, it's been vamp central for the last couple of weeks." She glanced around them meaningfully. "Right now, there's like four of them in here. At least. No easier prey than horny college kids. Don't worry," she added when Dean stiffened and made to move away. "I've got the whole gang of Slayerettes. There's a couple of the older ones at the bar, Becka is somewhere on the other side of the floor, and Lily's making eyes at the DJ. She's got a little bit of a crush."

_I'd like to know that your love  
_ _Is love I can be sure of.  
_ _So tell me now, and I won't ask again:  
_ _Will you still love me tomorrow?_

Dean put two and two together. "You picked this bar for the vampires."

"When you said that you and Sam were swinging through town, I thought it might be nice to give him a little Slayer show. You know, let him in on the fantastic world of hot chicks with superpowers. Besides, you promised to take me dancing when we left New Orleans. Time to pay up, handsome."

_Will you still love me tomorrow?  
_ _Will you still love me tomorrow?  
_ _Will you still love me tomorrow?_

The ballad finished with the singer's plaintive question still hanging in the air. Faith broke eye contact, pulling away to readjust her halter top. "Looks like your food's here." She gestured back towards his table, where a kingly hamburger awaited him. Even from this distance, the resplendent, marinara-drenched glory of the Italian burger was visible. "See you in a bit."

As the DJ changed the music again to something definitely Top 40, the Slayer disappeared into the crowd, finding a new partner within seconds. Dean noticed briefly that while she danced mere inches away from the guy, she did not allow him to touch her. Huh. Weird. Clearing his mind of all things Slayer-related, he returned to his hamburger.

"What was that about?" asked Sam as Dean reclaimed his barstool and began shoveling curly fries and ketchup into his mouth, suddenly starving.

"That?"

"Yeah. That brunette. Seemed like she knew you." Sam's brow wrinkled. He took another bite of his chicken salad sandwich. "Did you and Dad go on a hunt in Cleveland or something?"

Dean hesitated. He wasn't entirely sure how Faith planned to do her big reveal, and he didn't want to spoil whatever surprise she had planned. Still, he was trying to avoid lying to Sammy at the moment. Unless it was for his own good, of course. That was a whole different ball game.

"Something like that. I was here on a case, got into a fight with some idiots. She thought it was kinda hot. I swing by from time to time, if I'm passing through. Sometimes I see her, sometimes I don't."

"So that's why we stopped at this bar," his younger brother shook his head in mock-disbelief. "You wanted to look up a chick?"

"The burgers aren't half-bad, either." It was nowhere near a denial.

Sam snickered. "Dude. You don't change, do you?"

Taking a long pull from his PBR, Dean raised his eyebrows, a laughing glint in his green eyes. He lowered the beer bottle and wiped his upper lip. Careless of the marinara sauce dripping onto the table, the man chomped down on his Italian burger. "Bitch," he said casually around a giant mouthful of half-chewed food.

Shaking his head, Sam couldn't help but smile. "Jerk."

* * *

_So that was little brother,_  Faith mused as she snaked an arm around a stranger's waist. She moved effortlessly against the newcomer, giving him the merest idea of what moves she was capable of, if she chose, and then switched to the next loser. Working her way through the crowd, the Slayer made a flirtatious spectacle of herself, curious which vampire would bite first. Figuratively speaking. All the while, she managed to keep an eye on the two brothers across the room.

From the way Dean liked to talk, she had been expecting someone taller, ganglier. Not a shaggy-haired emo prince who, with a little guyliner, would have fit perfectly into the band posters decorating Lily and Becka's apartment. The Slayerettes were definitely going to get a kick out of this one. She could still hear their surprise and their painfully obvious attempts at being sneaky.  _Oh, Faith, your friend Dean has a younger brother?_ Poor baby Winchester. She almost felt sorry for him. He had no idea of what was coming.

Speaking of Winchesters . . . nearly seven long months had passed since the mud, ash, and fire of Camp Premiere. Seven months since she had spoken to Dean for longer than thirty minutes on a bad telephone connection somewhere. And in that time, a lot of crap had gone down She'd learned how to speak a new dialect (British high-society English was nothing like Boston English), she had started taking a few online college classes at Giles' behest, and she had assassinated a friend for the Watcher's Council. Sometimes, she almost missed the predictability of prison.

A stranger's hands got a little too frisky, and Faith pushed him away with disdain. Idiot. Another guy, built like a linebacker, stepped in to take his place. Goosebumps erupted all over the Slayer's shoulders where his hands touched her skin. Ahh. Vampire at last. Well, she could give him this song, at least. Vamps didn't tend to go for the kill in a crowded club. Besides, this fang could actually dance, and she was still a little lost in thought.

She hadn't been entirely certain how tonight would go. Or how she wanted it to go, even. Earlier, selecting an outfit and fixing her makeup, she'd felt something, a nervous rippling in her stomach. It was extremely disconcerting. Her stomach hadn't so much as twitched like that since, well, since Kenny the drummer back in South Boston. Faith hadn't even known that she could feel that way anymore. She had shrugged the sensation off as indigestion.

The hulking vampire attempted to pepper kisses along her neckline. Faith moved aside in such a way that it would be construed as accidental. Inwardly, she suppressed the urge to break his nose with her elbow. She was playing nice . . . for now.

As another song faded to its close, the crowd parted enough to allow her a glimpse of the table across the way. Dean Winchester was watching her, flinty-eyed. The opportunity was too much to pass up. Faith took the vampire's hand in her own and whispered something in his ear. Showtime.

Amazed at his own good fortune and completely unaware of just how soon that fortune would be shattered, the vampire led her out to the parking lot, his three friends falling in behind at a discreet distance.

"Which car is yours?" Faith maintained her airhead persona, pretending not to notice the extra shadows closing in. She had planned to take the vampires on one at a time, or even to share with one of the Slayerettes, if they asked nicely. But four against one could also be fun, and her palms itched for a good fight.

"That one."

"Which one?" The Slayer turned her head to the side, deliberately providing the linebacker with an opening. She dropped to the gravel a fraction of a second before the snarling started. The vampire's arms closed on thin air. Faith kicked up, catching him in the stomach and sending him sprawling backwards, then flipped back onto her feet. Warily, the other three vampires circled her and exchanged furtive glances as they tried to coordinate their attacks.

Unimpressed, Faith took advantage of their indecision to whip a stake out of her Doc Martens. Now, armed with a way to effectively whittle her opponents down to size, she tossed the stake from one hand to another. "Come and get it, boys," she purred to cover the noise of the bar door opening a second time.

Two tall figures stepped out into the gloom. "What the –" gasped the taller of the pair as he caught sight of the four growling men surrounding a much smaller woman. "Hey!" He started towards them, but his companion grabbed his arm and restrained him.

"Wait," ordered Dean. "Just wait."

This admonition would have gone ignored, but at that moment the vampires attacked. The leader tried a second time to grab for Faith. The Slayer skipped out of his reach and donkey kicked the vampire sneaking up on her in the groin. He went down in a moaning heap, and she staked him mid-fall. Then Faith whirled back to the linebacker. She executed a flawless spinning hook to the head with her chunky heel, knocking him unconscious with one blow.

A pair of hands clenched down around her shoulders, and Faith slammed her skull backwards into her attacker's nose, breaking it. The vampire released her to clutch at his fragmented septum. Taking advantage of this momentary distraction, Faith slammed the wooden stake in her hand through the monster's ribcage. As he exploded into a mini-mushroom cloud of ash, she began trading punches with the only vampire left standing. He was slighter than his friends and had hung back out of a lingering sense of self-preservation. In seconds, a pile of dust was the only thing left of him to linger at all.

The linebacker was starting to regain consciousness, but Faith drove her stake into his chest before he could do more than moan. She replaced the weapon into her and shimmied to get the dust out of her hair and clothes. The entire confrontation had lasted less than two minutes. Her heart thudded excitedly in her chest, singing its joyous siren song.  _I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive._

Spinning easily on her heels, the Slayer turned to face her audience. In the midst of the melee, she had not seen Becka and Lily sneak out of the bar, but there they were, standing just off to the side of the Winchester brothers. Faith's brown eyes flicked from the Slayerettes' amused smirks to Dean's obvious appreciation to Sam, who looked as though someone had just whacked him on the nose with a two-by-four.

"What the  _hell_?" The words came out in a strangled gasp as Sam shook himself free at last of his brother's grip.

She stalked toward him, one hand extended for Sam to shake. "I'm Faith. The Vampire Slayer."

Crickets chirped in the balmy May night.

"Vampires don't . . . you have to decapitate . . . what the hell was that? Dean?"

Dean placed a calming hand on his little brother's shoulder, thoroughly enjoying Sam's confusion. "What Faith means to say is that she is  _a_ vampire slayer, not  _the_  Vampire Slayer. Aren't there like a gazillion of you now?"

"Over a couple hundred, last count." Becka inserted herself into the conversation. "What?" she added at a sidelong glance from Lily. "I did some investigating."

"Watcher's pet," coughed Lily under her breath.

"Oh, really? When's the last time you saw me cozying up to Robin, huh?"

Sam watched this exchange as if it were in a foreign language. "What's a Watcher?" he asked, his extreme befuddlement giving way to frustration. "Dean, what's going on?"

"Can we give him the talk?  _Please,_  Faith," wheedled Lily.

"We really need the practice."

"Sure." With a shrug, Faith stepped aside. The Slayerettes converged on Sam, explaining the history and purpose of Slayers in their simplest form. Dean moved out of their way. His brother could handle two eighteen-year-old girls on his own. And if he couldn't, well, that was a personal problem.

"Nice work," he commented to Faith in an undertone. "Now can I go back inside and finish my beer?"

She shoved him with her hip. "That depends. You gonna buy me one?"

Dean saw no point in fighting the inevitable. "Why not?"

"Excellent. And how about a cheeseburger, too? I'm starving."

The hunter pretended to reconsider this. "I dunno. Should probably stick with Sam, just until he gets the lay of the land…"

He trailed off to listen to his younger brother, who was at that exact moment saying, "So Slayers are like some kind of Amazons?"

"If by that you mean super strong and super hot, yeah. But we don't have to cut off our breasts to become better archers or anything like that," Lily teased.

"Yep. Fully double-breasted over here." Becka could not help herself. If Lily was going to mess with the hot new guy, then she was definitely going along for the ride.

"Somehow, I think he'll be okay," Faith snickered. "Drink?"

"Drink."

But when they headed back into the bar, the Slayer changed her mind. She could have alcohol any time. Dean Winchester wasn't around all that often. "You know," she kept her voice casual, moving closer to him so that their sides brushed, "I think you owe me more than one dance."

He looked down at her dilated pupils and then took her hand in his callused one. "That so?"

This time, it was he who led the way onto the dance floor and who cleared a space for them amongst the undergraduates. The DJ was playing a set of slow songs, and Dean pulled Faith into his embrace. His hands found her waist, and she rested hers on his chest, content to do nothing but sway from side to side.

"It's been a while," she said quietly.

Dean understood the sentiment for what it was. "Yeah," he replied, just as quietly. "We've got a lot to talk about."

Reminders that she was going to have to explain about Genevieve were not exactly what Faith was looking for. They made her feel things, unpleasant things she wasn't willing to contemplate in her post-Slayage relaxation phase. Going up onto her toes, she kissed the hunter, open-mouthed and eager. He reciprocated with enthusiasm. When they broke apart, Faith sank back onto her heels. "Night's young yet. Talking can wait."

 


	33. When Faithy Met Sammy, pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be a bit late, but spoiler alert for events of BtVS Season 8. Given that the timeline of SPN is more fully established than that of the Buffy comics, the Winchester timeline is the one I'll be adhering to. Any mentioned events from BtVS S8 onwards will occur in the proper order, but they might get spread out a little bit.

 

**May 20th, 2006, Cleveland, Ohio**

The first thought that passed through Sam Winchester's mind was a hair peevish. His feet were cold. Worse, the mattress ended somewhere in the region of his ankles, which left his heels to drag on the floor. That in and of itself was strange. So they weren't in a motel, they weren't in the Impala, they weren't at Bobby's . . . His second thought was rather excited. Vampires weren't extinct, and there was a cult of female hunters who went after them.

Sam's third thought lay somewhere in the murky grey area in between excitement and irritation. Dean had another secret ex-girlfriend.

Opening his eyes at last, the twenty-three-year-old took stock of his surroundings. He was sprawled out on an air mattress in someone's apartment. Well, that explained the heel-dragging. The couch next to him was empty except for a crumpled blanket and a pillow dented with the impression of a skull. So Dean was already awake, then.

Memories of last night came trickling back, slowly. After the younger Slayers had given him their version of "the talk," – with excessive amounts of laughter and not-funny jokes – he had gone back to the bar to find his brother practically glued to that other Slayer, the – what had the blonde girl called her? The last classic-model Slayer.

Sam stood and folded his own blankets and fluffed his pillow automatically. That explained Dean's attraction to her, snarked a little voice in the back of the hunter's mind. Whether music or cars or food or girls, his brother always had a thing for what he termed the classics.

Now that he was fully awake, Sam became aware of the soft exchange of voices emanating from another room. He followed the noise to the kitchen and then paused in the doorway. Dean and the Slayer – Faith? – were standing together next to the stove, frying bacon and scrambling eggs. His brother was still wearing his pajamas – a t-shirt and plaid flannel pants.

Judging from their body language, the conversation was incredibly intense. Still, they kept their voices muted enough that he only caught words like "savage," "axe," and "frak." There was a lot of "frak," evenly distributed between the pair.

He had not been in the doorway more than thirty seconds when Faith called, "Morning, Sam," over her shoulder without looking, thus ending the intense discussion.

"Hey," replied Sam, a little unsure.

His brother and the Slayer exchanged quick glances, and then Dean stepped away from the stove, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "Mornin', Sammy. You mind watching the bacon? I'm gonna shave."

"Sure."

Faith waited until he was out of the room before addressing the younger hunter. "Hey. Sorry about last night. Kinda sprung a lot on you kinda quick."

Sam did not say anything for a long moment, focused on flipping all of the bacon over with a fork and avoiding a grease burn. He spun the heat down on the burner and gave the Slayer a once-over out of the corner of one eye. She had changed dramatically from the night before. Gone were the sultry outfit and the extreme eye makeup. In their places were faded jeans with holes in the knees, a white "I Heart London" tee, and a small silver and turquoise cross necklace. Finally, he said, "So, Vampire Slayer, huh?"

Stirring the eggs carefully with a spatula to prevent them from sticking to the bottom of the pan, she gave him a very knowing look. It was rather discomfiting. "Yep."

"For how long?"

"Since I was seventeen. That's when I got called."

"Called?"

"Thing 1 and Thing 2 were supposed to explain. Being a Slayer used to be like this: there was only one of you at a time. Yeah, there were lots of Potentials – girls in line to be the Slayer – but only one of you had the power at a time. A Slayer called Kendra died in '98, and my number came up. I've got a crapload of books about this, if you want to look through 'em. Dean says you're big into the school thing."

This bothered him, the possibility that there were people in his brother's life who knew things about him when he didn't have a clue that they even existed. Sam cleared his throat innocently. "Can I get a plate? For the bacon."

Faith reached into the cabinet over her head and passed him a large white plate. Getting another one for herself, she began transferring the eggs out of the skillet. Dotted with pepper and liberally dotted with melted cheese, they looked delicious. Coupled with the Spartan cleanliness of the entire kitchen itself, the scrambled eggs were forcing Sam to reexamine his preconceptions. He couldn't quite explain why, but he had not been expecting her to be neat – or a decent cook. Maybe it was the fact that every other hunter he knew tended to be complete slobs, with the exception of where and how they kept their weapons.

"How long have you known my brother?" he asked, grabbing a couple of paper towels from the roll on the counter. He spread a layer of them on the plate to absorb grease and then began lifting out the pieces of bacon one by one with a fork.

"Three years now." Finished with the eggs, the Slayer got a can of half-frozen orange juice concentrate out of the fridge. She prepared the juice in a plastic pitcher, adding a few cans of water and then shaking the covered pitcher to mix it.

_That long, huh_? thought Sam. Instead, he asked aloud, "So if you and Dean have been . . . friends . . . for three years, how come I've never heard of you?"

Faith shrugged. "I don't know. You'd have to ask your brother."

"Last night, he said you guys met here, in Cleveland. Is that true?"

"The second time we met, it was in Cleveland. The first time was out in L.A. I used to live in Sunnydale." That was mostly true, Faith reckoned. If you counted camping out in a crappy motel room or being in a coma for eight months as living. Neither of which she really wanted to claim.

"Sunnydale? Isn't that the place that got hit by a meteor a few years back? It happened around the end of my freshman year – I remember it being a big, big deal."

"Yeah, that wasn't a meteor. That was a group of Slayers fighting off the First Evil and sending its ugly incorporeal ass back to whatever hell it was spawned from. Sunnyhell was collateral damage."

"I'm thinking I might need to borrow those books of yours after all."

"Sure thing. I'll hook you up after breakfast." Faith got three smaller plates down from the cabinets over the counter and portioned out the eggs. She poured three glasses full of the icy cold O.J. "Oh, and I'm gonna do some laundry today, so if you've got anything that needs to go in the washer . . ."

Taken aback, the man resorted to autopilot. "I think I've got some socks and stuff."

"Cool." Dismissing any further laundry discussion, the Slayer stuck her head out into the hallway. "Dean, breakfast!"

His brother came trotting in a minute later, having changed out of his pjs into jeans and a gray henley. Dean's eyes widened at the sight of the food on the table. "Good job finishing the bacon, Sammy," he said, sliding into a chair at the small kitchen table next to Faith.

Sam's mouth opened and closed all on its own. This trip to Cleveland was getting more surreal by the minute.

* * *

True to her word, once the breakfast dishes were washed and put away and all the laundry gathered, the Slayer showed Sam back to her bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it was meticulously clean, the off-white carpet clear of shoes and clothing, the navy comforter turned down with crisp hospital corners. Faith indicated the two black bookshelves against the far wall, packed with fat books, skinny books, new books, faded books, all of them references on the occult (with the exception of half a shelf of dog-eared fantasy novels and crime thrillers).

"Have fun," she admonished, emptying her desk chair of a Jansport backpack and a college algebra textbook. Faith tossed the backpack over one shoulder and then slid the chair toward him. "I'll be around. Let me know if you need anything."

Sam dove into the literature, skimming along book spines in search of a definitive volume on Slayers. It took a good few minutes. There were books on everything – demons, portals, werewolves, elemental spirits, hell dimensions, shamanism, witchcraft for beginners, ghosts, and, of course, vampires. Nearly two entire shelves were devoted to vampires.

The Slayer section was limited to seven volumes on a bottom shelf. A gap lay between two of these. Sam wondered briefly what had occupied the missing spot, but then was distracted by the title next to the gap.  _Slayer of the Vampyrs, a brief history._  That seemed as good a place to start as any. Stretching out on the faded carpet, he turned to the table of contents and settled in for a long morning.

* * *

The first time he emerged, a hundred pages in and in need of the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of Faith sitting on the couch, folding laundry while working a long page of algebra problems. A few hours later, he headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. The window blinds were open to the parking lot outside. Sam peeked through to see his brother and the Slayer, washing down a dusty Dodge in the spot next to the Impala, which was already gleaming. They were using a couple of buckets and a few dingy washrags.

As he watched, Faith chucked her rag across the hood of the car, smacking Dean in the mouth with a faceful of dirty, soapy water. The Slayer lifted her arms and danced in triumph. Dean squeegeed the water off with a hand. The man wiped downwards from forehead to chin, and then shook his head, mouthing something. Sam couldn't make out the words, but his brother smiled before picking up the bucket of water and hurling its contents at Faith. She gasped at the cold temperature. Dean bent in half, laughing.

"You . . . " He missed the rest, but the unflattering meaning was fairly obvious. Faith charged around the front bumper of the car, dodging the second bucket of suds that Dean threw her way. She tackled the hunter. He caught her mid-jump and took a series of quick steps backwards to avoid falling over, his hands steadying her lower back, her legs wrapped about his waist.

Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Sam stepped away from the window and closed the blinds. Whatever was going on between his brother and the Slayer, he did not need to witness the rest of this wet T-shirt contest. Instead, the hunter filed this carefully away on his "list of things to talk to Dean about."

It was not that he disliked Faith. To the contrary, she seemed cool. He liked her apartment, she made wicked good scrambled eggs, and he had not seen Dean laugh that hard since Dad had disappeared. He just wished he knew why his brother had never mentioned her.

* * *

Dean set Faith back on the ground. "This was a clean shirt," he fake-mourned, picking up the toppled-over buckets and setting them upright. He gestured to the giant wet spot occupying the front of his henley. "Seriously, what the hell?"

Hands busy wringing out the bottom of her t-shirt, purposefully pulling her tee up to expose her stomach, Faith shrugged. "You looked hot." She kept her voice free of innuendo, content in the knowledge that Dean's brain could fill in the innuendo all on his own.

Shaking his head, the hunter reached down for the empty buckets. "You're killing me," he complained. "Just for that, you can clean the cow crap off your own car. I'm gonna go fill these back up."

"It's not cow crap," she hollered at his retreating back, amused. Once the front door closed behind him, Faith soaked a washrag in the sole remaining bucket of soapy water. She crouched by the right rear tire of her Intrepid and set to scrubbing the mud off of her hubcaps.

When Dean returned, laden with clean water, he had sobered significantly. He left one bucket by Faith and carried the second to the other side of the car. "Earlier, in the kitchen, you didn't finish telling me what happened in London."

Faith sagged against the rear passenger door of the Dodge. "You really know how to ruin the mood, Winchester."

He tossed a clean rag over the car roof. It landed with a plop on the concrete next to her knee. "Talk, Slayer. You went radio silent for a month. What happened?"

"Buffy," she said succinctly, wiping down the hubcap with her new rag.

"How does Buffy figure into it?"

Ridiculously grateful for the ton and a half of metal shielding her from him, the Slayer dug in and worked at removing the dirt from a new section of the car undercarriage. "I had a plan," she said haltingly. She hadn't thought too much about all of this, certain in the knowledge that once she began to examine it, everything would unravel.

"Giles doesn't believe me, but I had a plan. Gigi was my mission, but she was also my friend. So I was dragging my feet a little. It gave Gigi enough time to get  _her_  plan going. She kidnapped Buffy, and of course, B thought I was in on it. I had to step in to save Gigi, and Buffy blew my cover sky-high. Cue knock-down drag-out Slayer fight 2006."

"Who won?"

"I, uh, ended up strangling Buffy in a swimming pool."

The hunter let out a low whistle, but did not say anything else. This was Faith's show.

A splash sounded as Faith rinsed out her rag. The wet material slapped against the side of the Intrepid in a loud thwack. Her introspection, newly released, refused to be herded back into its box. "Funny how that happens. I get in a fight with Buffy, and I can't help it. I can't hold back. Ever. It's like there's this monster, this dark, bloody thing that always comes out. She hits me, and the monster screams that I'm about to die. That it's her or me. And I've got no choice."

"But you stopped this time."

"Yeah, I guess." She huffed in frustration, throwing all her weight into annhilating a particularly stubborn spot of muck. "Back in the Slayer doghouse again, but it's practically got my name painted on it at this point anyway . . . So, I realize what I'm doing and roll off Buffy, but before I can explain, she's teleported out of there by her pet Wicca. Leaving me with Gigi, who's crazy out of her mind with rage and fear and pain – not to mention betrayal. Gigi tries to kill me, and I accidentally impale her on her own damn axe. Gods.  _Accidentally_. There was more fall-out after that – Giles gets to share the doghouse with me for a while – but that's the big stuff."

Her audience remained silent, the only noise the swishing of water and the crunching of boots on asphalt as Dean shifted his weight.

"I don't know why I tell you this crap," Faith said with a sigh. A single tear burst free of her eyelids and slid its way down her skin. She brushed it away furiously and returned to scrubbing at the car with renewed vigor. "I . . . just . . . Every time I think I'm getting closer to being okay . . . with Buffy, with the whole Slayer setup, with myself . . . . every time, something like this happens."

"Faith – "

But, just like scratching off a scab or popping an inflamed zit, letting the misery out felt too good to stop. "And I know that I shouldn't tell you any of this," the Slayer observed grimly, "because one day you'll stop using those sparkly rainbow blinders you've got on where I'm concerned, and you'll wake up and smell the Folgers in the coffee maker and realize that I'm a monster and a killer, and that it's your job to put me in the ground."

Faith took in a big gulp of air and continued. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But I can't stop telling you things. Even when it's the awful stuff, and I know it's just gonna send you and that pretty car of yours zooming away faster than Airforce One. Because – and I have no idea why the hell this is – because you're the only person I can tell this stuff to. It's like I'm a frigging junkie. Just like my mom. Only it's not coke. It's talking to you."

Dean let his washrag drop to the concrete. Rubbing the back of his neck, he stepped around the trunk of the Dodge. The Slayer turned away, her attention still focused with pinpoint precision on cleaning the passenger door until it shone.

"Hey." He sat next to her on the hard ground, resting his hands easily on his knees. Between the Intrepid and the Impala, they were blocked from any curious onlookers. Dean went to put a hand on her shoulder, but Faith shook him off.

"Don't."

"Hey. Look at me. C'mon, Faith. Look at me."

The Slayer whirled, her eyes red and wild, her once-clean white t-shirt covered with splatters of mud and sweat. All her words expended, all her fears exposed, she was left with nothing more than the source of the trouble, the thing that had pervaded her dreams ever since leaving England. "I'm sorry," she croaked. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to kill her. I didn't want to kill her. I didn't have a choice. Please . . ."

"It's okay. It's not your fault." Dean hadn't quite finished processing, and he wasn't entirely sure what he thought. But Faith had only been trying to fulfill her mission, and that was what mattered. Besides, when she looked at him that way, trapped and panicked, it sent discomfort whizzing right through his insides. "Come here."

"I'm fine." The Slayer pushed his hand away unconvincingly. "I'm fine."

Relentless, he persisted. "Faith, come here."

Giving in, Faith scooted across the half dozen inches of asphalt separating them. She allowed him to wrap an arm around her, to pat her tangled hair awkwardly, to absolve her of how monumentally she had screwed up this time. It would be okay. Dean forgave her. And if he could do that, maybe she could someday forgive herself.

 


	34. When Faithy Met Sammy, pt 3

By the time Sam finished scanning through  _Slayers of the Vampyrs, A Gentleman's Guide to Watching and Slaying, Prominent Vampiric Cults and Where to Find Them, A Compendium of Important Events in the History of the Council of Watchers, yrs. 1500-1950_ , and  _How to Reach Your Majority: surviving adolescence for Vampire Slayers,_  it was brushing five o'clock in the evening. He returned his books to their places on the bookshelves and left the bedroom. Faith and Dean were sitting together on the couch, just enough space between them to not be touching.

On the television screen, Indiana Jones was cracking his bullwhip and doing something manly. Sam didn't really pay attention. He was more interested in the way that his brother's hand rested on the back of the upholstery, mere inches from the Slayer' knee, and in the way that the Slayer in question had her feet tucked into the cushion behind Dean.

Once again, Faith noticed and acknowledged his presence first, pausing the movie. "How'd the reading go?" she asked, shifting her feet to the floor and making space for Sam on the couch. "Find anything interesting?"

"It was enlightening," answered Sam noncommittally. "One thing I was curious about – if Slayers have existed for millennia, how come I've never come across them in any books of lore before?"

Stretching, the woman got to her feet. "I dunno. Maybe it's because hunters don't tend to have a great reputation with the Watcher's Council. Probably a case of class clashing or something. Snobby British old dudes like to be best at everything." She tugged her elbow behind her head to loosen up her shoulder joint. "I was thinking spaghetti for dinner. I'll cook, you two clean. Sound good?"

"Sounds great." Dean gave her a thumbs up.

"Cool." The Slayer made a performance out of stepping over lanky hunter legs and the air mattress on her way to the kitchen. "You guys want beers or something?"

"That would be nice, thanks," said Sam as his brother reached across him for the remote and restarted the  _Last Crusade._

Faith snapped out a sharp mock-salute. "You got it, chief." She returned moments later with two longnecks and passed them over. Humming the Indiana Jones theme under her breath, she went back into the kitchen. They heard the clattering of pots and pans as she set to work on dinner.

Dropping his voice beneath the noise of the movie, Sam decided it was time to start messing with Dean. He'd been holding his tongue for way too long on this one. "I like your girlfriend," he teased with a smile, twisting the cap off his beer.

"She's not my girlfriend," replied Dean automatically. He did not even bother to remove his eyes from the TV screen.

"Whatever. Dean, I saw you two last night - you kiss all your and Dad's old hunting friends like that?" Sam's hazel eyes danced.

His older brother nearly spit out a mouthful of beer. "Whoah. Dude. Why'd you go and do that for? Now I got all sorts of bad Dad-kissing images in my head." He shuddered theatrically. "Disgusting, man."

"Dean." Sam drew his brother's attention back to the subject at hand. "She did our laundry."

"Yeah, and I washed her car and changed her oil – keep your dirty thoughts to yourself, Sasquatch."

Sam snickered. "Not helping your case out. Not one bit. It's just – first Cassie, now this – I had no idea –"

Just as he had hoped, the older man took the bait and overreacted. "No idea of what? That I could be in a relationship that lasted longer than a night? Thanks for your confidence, Samantha."

"You called it a relationship." An exultant Sam grinned from ear to ear.

Dean absentmindedly wondered where his little brother had picked up that sh-t-eating grin. Belatedly, he realized he had seen that exact smile staring back at him from many a bathroom mirror. "Sam, the thing with Cassie was a relationship. This - it's not – "

"You just said it was."

There was no arguing with Sam when he was in this mood. So Dean responded the only way that he could, by grabbing a throw pillow off the back of the couch and throwing it. The pillow smacked his baby brother right in the kisser. Somewhat mollified, the older Winchester turned up the volume on the remote. "Shut up and watch the movie."

* * *

**May 20th, 2006, Cleveland, Ohio, 6:30 p.m.**

After dinner, the men played rock, paper, scissors for the washing up duties. Sam lost. While he got busy scrubbing tomato sauce out of the saucepan, his brother and the Slayer retired to the living room.

"You weren't kidding." Faith leaned her head back against the edge of the couch and twirled the stake in her hands. "Little bro does have a tendency to go for paper."

Dean scraped a whetstone down the length of his machete. "See? You shoulda believed me."

"Mmm. Well, I've learned the error of my ways, then."

They sat in a companionable silence for a while, cleaning and sharpening their various weapons. Sure, there wasn't any emergency on the horizon, but it never hurt to be prepared. Besides, Sam was taking  _forever_  to do the dishes.

"There's something I need to tell you," the man said hesitantly, his thumb resting on the machete's edge.

Faith glanced up from oiling her crossbow and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? This about you seeing that girl? Carrie, Clary – the one that you told about hunting?"

"Cassie, but how'd you know?"

"Sam's been dropping anvils all evening."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"I slept with her." The words came out in a rush, like an anxious thoroughbred sprinting out of the gate.

"Are we talkin' angry makeup sex or the 'you're my one true love' kind?"

"Uh . . ." The hunter found himself tripping over his tongue. "That wasn't the reaction I was expecting."

It was surprisingly easy to figure out what was on his mind. "Your brother's been dropping relationship anvils, too, huh?"

"How'd you – "

Finished, Faith set the crossbow aside. After the afternoon's emotional outburst, her surety had returned, bringing along with it her sense of irony and self-confidence. "Dean, who you sleep with isn't any of my business. What's got you so worked up, and not in the fun way?"

His question seemed silly now, but if Sam wouldn't believe him, there was a chance that something had gotten lost in translation with Faith as well. "Do you . . . do you think we're dating?" he asked hesitantly.

"Whoah there." The Slayer held up a hand to stop him. "What, cause we've had bad sex a couple of times?"

"Hey." Dean elbowed her. "It was damn good, and you know it."

Faith laughed. "Okay, okay. Yeah, it was. Is. Will be? I don't like to limit the future."

Relieved, the hunter let himself relax. "With you on that." He paused. "Earlier, you said – "

The Slayer's voice tightened. "Sorry about earlier," she apologized. "My mouth tends to run away with me."

Taking his eyes away from the machete, he met her gaze. "Hey. It's okay. This sounds super chick flicky – so I'll deny that I ever said it – but you can always talk to me. Good, bad, crazy, whatever."

Not feeling the need for another touchy-feely moment, Faith gave him an exaggerated wink. "Right back at you . . . Yeah?" she added when he looked away suddenly. "What's up?"

Brow furrowed, Dean pressed a little harder with his thumb on the machete, just enough to draw a few ruby drops of blood. He wasn't a hundred percent certain on this, but telling Faith about the shifter had felt a little like sucking poison out of a wound. He was hoping for a similar reaction here.

"A few weeks back, I got electrocuted. Messed up my heart. I, uh . . . well, the doctors told me I only had weeks to live. I was gonna call you, but Sam found this faith healer, who fixed me – trouble was, he used Reapers and killed somebody to do it. Some poor bastard with a wife and kids should be here, not me. I should be dead. And I can't quite forget that."

"Hey." The Slayer gently removed the machete from him and pushed it to the living room carpet. Taking his injured hand in hers, she applied pressure on the cut and knocked his shoulder with her own. "Hey," she repeated forcefully, until he looked at her. "I'm sorry about that guy. But I am not sorry that you're alive."

"Faith – "

"Uh uh. Maybe it's wrong, but the way I see it, the world's a far better place with Dean Winchester in it. And I'm sure your brother feels the same way." She jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen.

The hunter inhaled, his eyes caught on their clasped hands. It had worked. The guilt had faded a little – for the moment, anyway. Hope crept out of the dark corners of his heart. "Sam caught wind of a disappearance case out in Minnesota. You want to come along? Unless you've got something big coming up . . ."

"Nope." Faith shook her head with a smile and released the hunter's fingers. "I'm just here 'til Giles find a new troubled Slayer for me to babysit. Road trip sounds like fun. Besides, I want to see Sam the Research Wunderkind in action."

"Don't tell him I said this, but he actually is pretty good."

"No worries. Your secret's safe with me. How long's the drive to Minnesota?"

"Thirteen hours, give or take," responded Dean without missing a beat. He didn't even have to think. "Want to head out tonight?"

The Slayer shrugged. "Why not? Anna and Vi can handle the patrolling. No one's expected to rise tonight, anyhow." She stood and lifted her backpack from the coffee table. "I'll throw some stuff together – we can leave whenever."

Alone in the privacy of her bedroom, Faith unzipped her bag and withdrew a ledger bound in black leather. Its silver-edged pages were worn in places from extensive reading. The woman debated about where to put it. Six months ago or so, Wesley's Watcher diary had finally made the shift from living under her bed to taking its place proudly on the bookshelf with the rest of her library.

Earlier this morning, she had regretted the necessity of removing it again. Concealing the book seemed a dishonor to Wes's memory and legacy. Even if that legacy only existed in her and the blue alien creature that Angel insisted on working with. Still, although it pained her to admit, Faith valued her secrets too much. As long as little Winchester was around, the ledger had to be hidden. She slipped the diary between her mattress and box springs.  _Sorry, Wes._

Chalking her abandonment of the book up to the demands of necessity, the Slayer hurriedly packed the bottom of her red duffel bag with clothing and minimal toiletries. She then added her 9mm Smith and Wesson, a leather pouch of silver bullets, a Bowie knife, another silver knife, and her dirk, a relic from the WWII era Soviet navy that Lily had found on e-Bay, its single-edged twelve inch blade lethally sharp. In a disappearance case, you never really knew what you were up against in time to prepare. So Faith liked to plan ahead. Vetala, vampire, werewolf, zombie, Chaos demon – she'd bring her basic kit and improvise when the monster revealed itself.

Satisfied with her duffel, the Slayer grabbed her wallet, algebra textbook, and laptop and shoved them into her backpack along with a few other necessities. She returned to the living room to find Dean explaining to his little brother that Faith was coming with them. Sam seemed to be handling it well, so she didn't pay them too much attention. Instead, she opened her duffel back up and added her crossbow and two stakes to the pile of weaponry inside.

"Just two?" asked Sam, raising an eyebrow.

Because she couldn't quite tell if he was being serious or not, she decided to answer the question as if he had been. "I can make a stake out of anything – chair leg, pool cue, warehouse pallet, broom handle, drumstick, firewood, staircase railings . . . Figuring it out as I go along is part of the fun."

Faith's cell phone buzzed in her pocket, demanding her attention. She glanced at the caller ID. "Huh. It's Giles. Hang on, guys." As she stepped into the hallway, Faith answered the phone. "Hey, G-man. Bit past your bedtime. What's up?"

"There's a flight to Berlin that leaves the Cleveland airport in ninety minutes." The man's voice was curt and urgent. "You need to be on it. Go to the Lufthansa desk. They're expecting you, and they'll expedite you through security."

"Giles, what the hell? I'm in the middle of something. Can't it wait a few days? Or at least till tomorrow?"

"I'm afraid not. I met a Slayer named Courtney today. All of fifteen years old, dreadfully wet behind the ears. She claims there is a Slayer sanctuary in a town called Hanselstadt – a three hours' drive out of Berlin. Courtney was incredibly excited about it. Apparently, Slayers can move there and avoid the nasty business of fighting evil. Of course, that –"

"Sounds too good to be true," Faith finished for him.

"Correct. Which means – "

"That is isn't true. And since it sounds so fantastic, that means it's probably about to go nuclear." The Slayer closed her eyes tight for a second and almost managed to put a lid on her frustration. "Damn it, Giles. I had plans."

"Faith, I need you on that plane. You have less than ninety minutes now. Go."

_Frak_ , thought Faith. Out loud, she said, "Got it. See you in Berlin tomorrow, G-man."

The Slayer flipped the phone closed. Well, this sucked. Squaring her shoulders, she headed back to the living room to break the news. Dean took it surprisingly well. Upon reflection, perhaps not that surprisingly. Chances were he had been eavesdropping.

"You guys can stay here for another day or so, if you want." Faith threw a couple extra stakes into her bag and removed the revolver and bullets. If Germany was anything like England, they were super strict about gun control. She could call Giles back and try to ask about a gun permit, but there honestly wasn't time. She'd just leave the gun at home and hope that her crossbow would make it through customs instead. "Just drop the keys off with Becka on your way out of town."

"Thanks." Dean was already reaching for his keys and leather jacket. "I'll take you to the airport. Sam, we'll leave first thing in the morning."

"I'm gonna run and grab another change of clothes and my passport." She was only being half-deceitful. Faith did want another pair of jeans, a few more clean tank tops, and the passport out of her desk. But more important was the diary, which she dug out from beneath her mattress and slid back into her backpack. It wasn't safe staying home alone with Sam. And she could really use Wes right now.

The drive to the airport passed mostly in silence. Everything that they needed to say had already been said. Dean simply turned the volume up on the Styx cassette in the tape deck and pressed down a little harder on the gas pedal.

"Sorry," Faith said abruptly when the Impala skidded to a halt on the curb. She delayed unbuckling her seatbelt, knowing that once she was out of the car, she would have to run to catch that plane. She wanted to take another minute, first.

"Don't miss your flight. You got Slayers to rescue, evil to defeat."

Now she was opening the door, lifting her duffel bag up to her shoulder. "Let me know how the missing persons thing turns out?"

"I'll call you." It wasn't a trip to Minnesota to investigate disappearances, but it was the best she was going to get.

The Slayer hopped out of the car and hurried inside the terminal, looking for the Lufthansa insignia. A kind airline employee checked her duffel, handed her a folder with her boarding pass, and led her to the front of the security line. Faith hated lines. And the TSA. Standing in her socks, no belt, phone, or weapons, she always felt somewhat naked. Thankfully, she made it through the metal detector with no funny beeps, and then she was on her way to her gate.

* * *

Faith was halfway down the ramp between the departure gate and the door of the airplane when her phone rang again. Assuming the caller to be either Giles or Dean, she answered it automatically.

"Miss me already?" she teased.

"Hi, Faith."

Hair stood up on the back of the Slayer's neck. This was neither Giles nor Dean. She removed the phone from her ear and glanced down. Unknown number. "Who's this?"

"How're my boys doing?"

"Is this . . . John Winchester?" Faith lowered her voice to a hiss. The other passengers were already regarding her strangely. "How did you get this number?"

He dodged the question. "How are my sons doing?"

"I have no idea."

"Don't lie to me, Faith. I don't have much time here." John sounded exhausted.

"If you want to know how they're doing, call them."

"I can't. It's too dangerous."

What a bullsh-t excuse. She told him so, ignoring the disapproving looks of the people standing around her. "And it's not too dangerous to call me? That's crap, John. And you know it's crap."

"They don't know that you're involved. And a Vampire Slayer can take care of herself."

"You think that Dean and Sam can't?"

"Not when it comes to this. Look, I just need to know – how are they doing?"

But she had reached the cool metal door to the Boeing 777. "I'm sorry, John. I have to go. Call your sons." And as Faith turned the phone off and stepped into the air-conditioned interior of the plane, she almost did feel sorry for him. Almost.

 


	35. Somewhere That's Green, pt 1

**May 21, 2006, Tegel-Berlin Airport, Berlin, Germany 5:00 p.m.**

It was an extremely bedraggled Slayer who slunk her way through the customs line. She had managed to pass out on the eight-hour leg from Dulles to Munich, but even then she'd had weird dreams that involved Buffy and far too much blood, waking from the uncomfortable musings of her unconscious to a cricked neck and awful airplane food.

"Purpose for your trip?" asked the customs agent in flawless English, regarding Faith in a way that let the woman know she must look as scruffy as she felt. Or perhaps people here just didn't go around in tank tops and jean jackets anymore.

"Vacation," answered the Slayer shortly as she passed over her passport. The agent flicked through its pages and examined Faith's photo carefully. It was a decent picture. Giles had been adamant about her using minimal makeup and wearing something that covered her shoulders and her cleavage – not in so many words, of course. That would have been too indelicate for the G-man. He tended to hint or sigh or polish his glasses rather than say something like that outright.

"How long will you be staying?"

"A few weeks. I'm meeting up with my uncle, and we're going to make a tour of the abandoned castles in the area. He's a huge medieval history buff." Customs was always like this – finding the balance between cheerful, bubbly American and talking too much, making up lies as you went along, hoping you could remember all of them at the end of it.

"And what address will you be staying at?"

She had remembered to prepare for this, too, looking up Berlin hotels during her layover in D.C. Faith rattled off the address for a solid three-star hotel, one in the middle of the price range that even Giles could not object to on the grounds of either expense or sketchiness.

The customs agent turned to the page where Faith's visa for England was stamped in. "What took you to the U.K.?"

"My uncle is a retired museum curator. He used to work at the British. I took a semester or two off from school to spend some time with him." This was true enough, with the minor exception of Giles not being her uncle.

Not that Faith would have minded having Giles for an uncle. She occasionally wondered how her life would have turned out if someone like him had been around when she was a kid. Or if he'd been her first Watcher instead of Diana. Diana had saved her, in more ways that one, but maybe a younger Watcher could have survived Kakistos.

"Do you have anything to declare?" This last question drew Faith's attention back to the present moment and out of her navel.

"Um…" The Slayer made a show out of frowning in concentration. "I have a few knives and a replica medieval crossbow in my suitcase – presents for my uncle. But I think that's it."

Thankfully, the long line of tourists stretching out behind her was daunting enough that this customs agent didn't feel like delving too deeply into her story. He found an empty page in Faith's passport and pressed his stamp down, leaving a bright red imprint.

Free at last, Faith picked her bags up from off the floor and followed the streams of people to the nearest exit. Her cell phone did not have service in Germany, but she wasn't expecting any problems locating Giles. The former Watcher was a planner – he would find her. Sure enough, she had only been standing on the curb for five minutes when a black Volkswagen Passat drew up. The front seat passenger window rolled down, and a familiar voice said, "Get in."

Somehow, she managed to fit both her duffel and her backpack into the space around her feet and closed the door to the Passat. "Evening, Giles."

The older man watched as she unzipped her duffel and rummaged in its depths until she pulled out a Bowie knife and a wooden stake. Then, the Slayer tossed the suitcase into the backseat, where a waifish teenager with streaming blonde hair sat staring at her, eyes wide as saucers.

"Hi, I'm Faith. Are you Courtney?" Faith spoke more gently than usual. This kid looked like she'd barely weigh a hundred pounds wet. There was no way in hell she was fifteen. Giles must have got it wrong. Maybe thirteen, but that was still a stretch.

"Yep!" The high-pitched, excited voice was an odd mixture of the grating and the pathetic. "Are we going to Hanselstadt now?" she wondered, nearly breathless with anticipation.

"We are in the morning." Giles was also using his nice voice, the one that usually only got trotted out when Buffy needed it. He merged neatly into the speedy traffic, navigating his way back towards Berlin proper with ease. "Faith has just had a long flight and could use a rest, I expect."

"I wondered why you hadn't brought me coffee."

"But she can rest in Hanselstadt! Please, please can we go tonight?"

Watcher and Slayer exchanged glances across the front seat of the Volkswagen. Giles raised one gray eyebrow over his wire-rimmed glasses, and Faith shook her head imperceptibly.

"Sorry, Court," she apologized with an exaggerated yawn. "If I don't sleep in an actual bed, I turn into a bear."

"She's being quite serious," added Giles. "I have seen it myself. It can be rather terrifying."

_Note to self,_ thought Faith.  _Remind G that he's a crap liar._

Forced to admit defeat, the tiny Courtney settled back against the car upholstery and looked disappointed. Well, that was all right. If Faith could predict the G-man's moves – and she was about sixty percent certain that she could – she and Courtney would be sharing a hotel room, and she would have plenty of time tonight to ferret out the kid's backstory.

"How was the flight?"

"Fine."

Giles lowered his voice. "Thank you for coming, Faith. I understand that this put you in a bad position. Were you working a case with Robin's group?"

The Slayer shook her head, sending her ponytail lashing from side to side against her chin. "Nah. I was . . . about to leave town with the Winchesters."

"Winchesters plural? Goodness – I had no idea there were multiple of them. How is your friend Dean doing?"

"He's fine – I think."

"Well, in that case, I am sorry to have dragged you away. I know how much you enjoy his company."

Faith shot the Watcher a suspicious look, but his face was innocently blank. "Thanks." It felt weird, accepting apologies from G-man. He wasn't really one to apologize – generally, his decisions were so well thought out that you couldn't call him on the carpet for a mistake. And even then, no one in the newly reformed Watcher's Council was in the habit of apologizing to Faith. To the contrary, she tended to be the one who got raked over the coals for screwing up.

"You see," Giles dropped his voice even further, "something is rotten in the state of Denmark."

Faith frowned in confusion. "I thought Hanselstadt was in Germany, not Denmark?"

"It's a quote. From Shakespeare."

"Aahhh. Romeo and Juliet guy, right?"

The librarian winced at the oversimplification. "I suppose you could refer to him as that, yes. That particular quote was from his tragedy Hamlet."

"Hamlet? Sounds like a McDonald's sandwich if you ask me."

"Er . . . perhaps you should add a literature class next semester? How is that going, by the way?"

"Fine, I guess. I'm taking college algebra right now – and world history. It's funny how much they don't know. The historians – I mean. Seems like they just make up stuff, sometimes. And they leave the occult out completely."

"Quite." Giles wasn't entirely sure where to go from here, so he changed the subject altogether. "Have you heard from Buffy?"

"She still mad at you?"

The Watcher nodded in silent assent.

"I'm not touching that one. You need to talk to her and work it out between you two."

"And what about you?"

"When the next big thing comes up, and she needs another body to stand between her and the end of the world, Buffy'll call. She always does."

_Just like you do._  Her black mood arose suddenly, like a summer squall at sea.  _That's all I really am – your scapegoat, your disposable Slayer, your cannon fodder. And since I'm already tarnished, you'll use me for all the filthy work that St. Buff won't dirty her hands with. I'll spend my life trying to make up for Sunnydale, and it'll never be enough._

In a vain attempt to shove her resentment back into its cage, Faith wondered aloud, "Hey, I'm starving. Where can we get some dinner around here?"

* * *

After getting takeaway at a place with decent doner kebab, they proceeded to the hotel that Faith had given at customs. Her stomach now filled with ridiculous amounts of grease, the Slayer stood in a daze as Giles checked them in and acquired room keys. This was definitely a step up from the motels she'd been staying in lately.

There was no more beautiful sight in the world than the two queen-sized beds in the hotel room that the two Slayers – old and young – would be sharing for the night. Instinctively, Faith claimed the bed closest to the door and furthest from the air conditioner. If anything busted in, they'd have to go through her first.

Exhausted and jet-lagged, the woman did not bother with any of Dean's anti-ghost precautions. Instead, she flipped through the TV offerings until she found the Disney channel and then tossed Courtney the remote.

"You got a weapon, kid?" she asked tiredly, hefting her duffel up to her shoulder as she moved toward the en suite.

Courtney glanced away from the television. "No. Should I?"

"Here." Faith laid her Bowie knife on the bedspread by the teenager's knee. "Just in case."

The older Slayer walked into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Before changing or using the toilet, she removed the dirk from her suitcase and unsheathed it halfway, revealing six inches of gleaming steel. She set the dirk on the bathroom counter beside the sink, in easy reach of the tub. Only then did Faith disrobe and step into the shower.

Five minutes of standing beneath the scalding spray, and she was finished. The Slayer tugged on her pajamas and brushed her teeth, staring woodenly at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She looked less scruffy now and more like a drowned rat. Well, that was still an improvement.

When she returned to the main room, Courtney had changed the channel and was now watching Battlestar Galactica. Faith recognized the episode – the blonde pilot chick was having it out with the short brunette pilot chick over her drug use.

"Don't tell Mr. Giles," begged the girl, turning a set of pleading puppy-dog eyes on the older woman.

Faith sighed. Obviously, this kid had been misinformed, if she thought Faith was a hallway monitor or a tattletale. "Watch whatever you want," she groaned, dropping her duffel to the floor beside her bed and retrieving her silver knife. The Slayer slid the dagger under her pillow and crawled beneath the covers. "Just don't wake me up," she warned before pulling the comforter over her head. By the time the two female pilots finished their argument, Faith was already asleep.

* * *

**May 22nd, 2006 Berlin, Germany, 10:00 a.m.**

Either the kid had more sense than Faith had given her credit for, or the sight of the naked knife beneath her head and the unsheathed dirk by her side acted as an incredibly effective silencing agent. No one bothered her in the morning, and by the time her eyes opened, it was brushing 9 a.m. Courtney was watching TV again, this time Lost.

With fourteen hours of sleep behind her, Faith at last felt capable of dealing with the universe. While she dressed in a pair of green fatigues and a faded gray tee shirt, she started asking questions. Bit by bit, Courtney's life story came tumbling out.

She was fourteen, splitting Giles' and Faith's guesses neatly down the middle. Grew up in a North London suburb, with two caring parents and an older brother. Normal girl, normal life, until six months' previous, when she had accidentally broken a schoolmate's arm during a game of rugby. Suddenly, anytime she tackled someone, they got hurt. Courtney felt "like Hercules in that stupid Disney movie, all strength and no control." From there on, things only got worse.

A couple of months later, a trio of vampires found her. It wasn't a case of chancing upon a helpless teenage girl – oh, no. They knew her name, and they knew that she was a Slayer. Courtney had made it out alive, but her best friend Jennifer hadn't been quite so lucky.

Courtney's luck held out for another twenty-four hours. That night, safe at home, she did some intensive Googling and stumbled upon the webpage that Andrew had set up for novice Slayers to contact headquarters. Within hours, the Slayer network had routed her to the closest operative, and she was webchatting with Giles. And when Jennifer rose the next night, Courtney had been waiting, a broken billiard cue in hand.

Faith took this story in without betraying any emotion. It was nothing short of a trial by fire, but becoming a Slayer always was. And if you weren't tried with fire, it would be pain or blood or something else equally destructive. If Slaying was a walk in the park, everyone would do it.

"So how'd you hear about Hanselstadt?" she asked at the end of Courtney's long tale, when the teenager sagged against her headboard.

The mention of her utopia seemed to revive her somewhat. "It's everywhere – at least on this side of the Atlantic – the Slayer chat forums, the grapevine, the demon bars. Everyone's heard of Hanselstadt. The town where Slayers can be free, where there are no monsters within fifty kilometers – they're all too scared."

The older Slayer paused in applying her mascara, her mouth half-open. No matter how she tried to keep it closed, it always dropped open whenever she put on makeup. Must be some kind of subconscious thing. "And you want to, what, live there?"

"Yes," replied Courtney with determination. Resolve glinted in her eyes.

"What about your parents?" Faith set down the mascara and added a little lipstick. The name on the cap made her snicker.  _Devil red._

Courtney hesitated. "They . . . didn't handle the Slayer thing well," she said grudgingly after a long, awkward silence.

"What do you mean?" pressed the woman. Satisfied with her make-up, she opened her laptop and slowly connected to the hotel's guest wifi.

"I didn't tell them."

Faith raised an eyebrow. "So where do they think you are?"

"On an overnight school trip."

"O-kay. Why didn't you tell them?"

"They wouldn't react well. I mean, I had the worst time convincing my mom to let me join rugby. She thought it was too violent. When they find out about me being a Slayer, my parents will have aneurysms. Both of them. That's why Hanselstadt. My dad's in Germany for work a lot, anyway. If there's someplace we can move, where I'll be safe, then I think I can tell them."

There wasn't much that Faith could say to this. Her gut was hissing at her that Hanselstadt, whatever it actually was, was unlikely to provide Courtney with the happy ending she was so desperately searching for. Still, her own misgivings were not enough to justify depriving the teenager of her hope. Faith knew how important a drug that particular emotion could be.

"Soon as I check my email, we'll grab Giles and hit the road," she promised as the web page finally swam into view. The Slayer typed in her username and password and scanned through the spam about penile enhancements for something actually interesting. Aha! There it was, the message she had been hoping for.

**From: ZepHead_79**  
To: FyreCracker5x5  
Date: May 21, 2006 at 9:00 p.m.  
Subject: Disappearances  
Attached: MissingGuy . jpg

Hey.

Hope your flight went okay. We're almost to Minnesota, but decided to stop for the night in Eau Claire. Turns out another guy went missing last night. Sam intercepted the police report – I attached it here. We'll go talk to the witnesses tomorrow.

All the disappearances so far have been men – Sam thinks it's another Woman in White. I'm not quite sure yet. Want to place any bets on what you think the monster is? Loser(s) buy the winner a bottle of the alcohol of his (or her) choice.

Dean

. . . .

Faith fired off a quick response, her fingers dancing across the keyboard.

**From: FyreCracker5x  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: May 22, 2006 at 9:45 a.m.  
Subject: RE: Disappearances**

Dean,

Hmm. I'd need more info before placing a bet. Oh, what the hell. Put me down for it being a pair of Vetala again. Have they found any bodies yet?

Flight was fine. Heading out now to check out Happyville. I got a weird feeling about this . . .

Faith

. . . .

"Are you ready?" Courtney asked hopefully as the older woman closed her laptop and returned it to its bag. "Can we please go now?"

"Yeah, sure." Faith picked up the receiver on the hotel phone and dialed Giles' room. "Give us five minutes, and we'll be on our way."

* * *

Giles was, of course, immaculately turned out in a three-piece tweed suit and ready to go. He handled the check-out at the front desk while the Slayers ransacked the free breakfast. They attempted to be discreet about cramming extra to-go coffee cups full of boiled eggs and pastries – and knew they were completely unsuccessful.

"I trust you two slept well," Giles said amicably as the three piled back into the Passat.

Faith understood the unstated question. She met his inquisitive glance with a forceful one of her own. Next time they hit a rest stop, or whenever Courtney had to take a potty break, she had several things to talk over with him. Namely, did he have any idea that Courtney hadn't told her parents?

It took three hours to reach Hanselstadt. Faith spent most of the time dozing, her head tilted against the car window. The Volkswagen was incredibly nice, but something about the angle of the upholstery felt off. A weird tingling began in her neck, and the Slayer constantly readjusted her posture every few minutes. The tingling wore off when she moved. However, after five minutes in a new position, it came back with a vengeance.

By the time the village came into view, the Slayer was beyond ready to get out of the car. Courtney had been getting more and more excited as the miles flew by. Now, she was practically bouncing in her seat, peering out the windows like a puppy on its first road trip.

The Slayer sanctuary was not a large city, by any means. Faith surmised that there were perhaps two hundred houses, all steeply pitched roofs and stone-and-plaster walls, gathered around a dark-walled Lutheran church. The church, a mini-Gothic cathedral, was set back on the knees of the bare-headed mountain at the rear of the city, and it loomed over the houses in the valley.

"Reckon they've got a pretty good graveyard," Faith commented offhand as Giles drove in through the heavy wooden gates surrounding the village. The vehicular traffic in the village was minimal, but he followed the slow trickle of old cars – including a few Dacia rust-buckets – up the hill towards the main thoroughfare.

"You know," she continued, "town like this, you end up with all sorts of old headstones, moss-ridden angels, and things. Crypts under the church chapel and what not."

"You like cemeteries?" asked a surprised Courtney from the backseat.

Unbuckling her seatbelt, the older woman lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "They're familiar," she replied. "You get used to them after a while."

Given time, Faith was certain that Courtney would come to feel the same way. It took some doing, and more trips over tombstones in the dark than she wanted to admit, but in a weird way, graveyards were home. An experienced Slayer worth her salt could read a graveyard like a bedtime story.

"Giles, how old do you think that church is?" Faith wondered when they pulled into the parking lot beside the Gothic structure.

The Brit shifted into park. Stepping out of the car, he examined the old stone and Gothic architecture of the chapel with a practiced eye. "Mid-eighteenth century at the earliest, no later than the mid-nineteenth. It looks like it has been rebuilt at least once."

"You know how they bury people in the church floor in some of these old places? Like in Southwark?" The Slayer had chanced upon Southwark Cathedral during her last trip across the pond and had fallen, if not in love, then definitely in like. She couldn't quite explain why it interested her so much, other than to give the basic reasons: it was free, there were no lines to get in, it was close to a cool market with really good food, and it was old and Gothic.

Deeply familiar with Faith's fascination with Southwark, Giles merely nodded.

"Are there any mentions in the lore about vampires rising from beneath the stones of the chapel? Like, in the middle of a mass or something? 'Cause that would make a great read."

"And to think you wanted to retire not that long ago," mused the Watcher, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"What can I say? Guess you can't take the Slayer out of the girl after all." Nothing could rain on Faith's parade just now. The early afternoon air was cool and dry, with a slight wind off the mountain that teased the ends of her hair. This far out from any metropolitan area, the smell of pollution was nonexistent, replaced by that of earth, livestock, and the faintest hint of petrol.

Closing the door to the Passat, she performed a last minute inventory – dirk belted to her hip, silver knife strapped to her calf, a stake in each boot, her crossbow in hand, the quiver slung across her back. "Giles, what've you got?"

The Watcher lifted a faded black laptop bag to his shoulder, its bulging outlines uncharacteristic of any laptop. "A few things," he said noncommittally.

"Good. Courtney, you still got that knife I gave you?"

Courtney pulled the Bowie out of her jacket pocket.

"Okay." Faith grinned. Damn, but it felt good to be the Slayer in charge. "Let's go be tourists."

 


	36. Somewhere That's Green, pt 2

**May 22** **nd** **, 2006 Hanselstadt, Germany, 2:00 p.m.**

The party of three strode through the narrow, cobble-stoned streets of Hanselstadt, following the light foot traffic and the sound of conversation to the open air market occupying three blocks of the main road. Courtney gawked unabashedly at the villagers, fascinated. Growing up right outside of London, she had never seen anything like this village market before.

Elderly women, their iron-gray hair wrapped and pinned into neat coifs or covered by bright scarves, seemed to be the ones holding court here. Some of them barely pushing five foot even, they harangued vendors in sharp, staccato tones, negotiating for a more favorable price on each piece of produce, cut of meat, or block of cheese. Many of these women were dressed from head to toe in dark, sensible colors and wore the type of shoes discreetly referred to as orthopedic. They dragged small, two-wheeled rolling shopping totes behind them. Occasionally, one would call across the crowd to greet a friend.

The old men dressed as somberly as their female counterparts. They bartered less fiercely, and groups of them stood conversing in the doorways of the local shops. Faith spotted quite a few middle-aged men and women as well, and even a handful of people her age. But no children. The bustle of the market was remarkable for its lack of high-pitched voices. Look as she might, the Slayer did not see a single person Courtney's age or younger. It added a gray cast to the afternoon. Oh, well. Perhaps they were all in school still.

Giles inserted himself into the crowd, stepping up to a booth and inquiring about the price of apples in flawless German. He purchased three of them and moved back through the press of villagers to the center of the street, where the foot traffic was swiftest.

"Since we skipped lunch," he explained, tossing an apple to each of the Slayers. Courtney bit into hers with relish. This place was everything she had hoped for. The foreign words, the fresh-air smell, the gabled roofs – it was like walking in a fairy-tale. She kept turning her head, trying to take all of it in at once.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she breathed as they crossed another street and the aroma of freshly-baked bread filled the air.

"It's something," replied Faith, less than starstruck. Picturesque tended to lose its meaning when you knew the pictures could come alive and eat you. "Giles, it's gonna take more than an apple to fill the crater in my stomach."

"Courtney?"

"Yeah, what she said," the younger girl said, too caught up in the magic of the moment to pay very much attention. "I'm starving."

"Slayers and their metabolisms," sighed Giles ruefully as he sighted a small bakery. "Would pastries be appropriate? I assume you aren't going to order for yourselves . . ."

"Works for me." Faith caught hold of Courtney's shoulder when the new Slayer began to follow the Watcher towards the bakery. "Court and I'll stay here and keep a watch out."

"Why?" Courtney danced away from the black-painted nails on her sleeve and looked longingly at the back of Giles' tweed coat. "What's there to watch out for? It's daylight."

Rather than answer the question, the woman went for a misdirect. "You said it's all over the internet – Hanselstadt."

"Yeah?" The girl watched in horrified astonishment as Faith swallowed the last of her apple, core and all.

"What?"

"You eat the seeds?" Courtney wrinkled her nose and scrunched her shoulders in disgust. "Eugh."

"They're not gonna kill you."

"But they're gross."

And this was why Faith didn't much like working with teenagers. Oh, her Cleveland crew had yet to reach their twenties, but she couldn't remember them being this silly in years. Of course, it helped that Robin was their official Watcher, and he had been a high school principal. "Food's food," she said at last. "So, Hanselstadt. How do we find the other Slayers?"

Courtney shrugged. "I don't know. They never said. Just that it was a safe haven. I guess maybe the Slayers here will come find us?"

"Maybe." The woman's empty stomach knotted uncomfortably. "You ever work with any other Slayers, Courtney?"

The fourteen-year-old shook her head. "Not really. I went to sparring practice with the group in London a couple of times, but I couldn't find enough excuses to tell my mom, so then I stopped going."

"Okay." Time to try another tack. "When you first saw me, what did you think?"

"What do you mean?"

Faith forced herself to be patient. She wished Giles would hurry up so that she could confide in him. Courtney was too much of a tenderfoot. Six months in, and still a tenderfoot. How the world of Slaying had changed! "When you saw me, on the curb at the airport, what did you think? How would you have described me?"

Not understanding where this was going, Courtney tried to do her best. "Tired," she said thoughtfully with a dainty nibble at her apple core. "Impatient."

"Anything else?"

"Uh . . . tough?"

Speaking of impatience . . . "That all you've got?"

"Yes. Wait, no . . ." The girl concentrated. "You looked . . . on edge. The whole time, actually, you've looked on edge. Except when you were sleeping."

Progress at last. "Good. On edge. We can work with that." Faith spoke more quietly now, having belatedly realized that a decent chunk of the people around them were fluent in English. "Next question. How old's your oldest Slayer?"

"Uh . . . I'm sorry, I haven't really been doing the history reading – I had exams and things."

"That's okay. I was bad at the reading, too. You don't need the reading for this. Just your common sense. How old's your typical Slayer?"

"Um, a teenager?"

"Got it. Except for Buffy, and me, and a few of the oldest girls who were called in the battle with the First, all the Slayers are teenagers right now. So, let's take those two things and put them together. What marks a Slayer? A teenage girl who's acting on edge." The Slayer paused, and then continued with her teaching moment. "Look around, Courtney."

"I have been –"

"Nah, nah, look again. Look at everyone around us. Do you see anyone –  _anyone –_ who fits that description?" Faith waited a beat before adding, " 'Cuz I don't. If this is a sanctuary, where are all the Slayers?"

The younger girl blew off this concern without a second thought. "It's  _Hanselstadt_ , Faith. This is the Slayer sanctuary. No one's going to be on edge here."

"Some of the other people certainly are." She nodded to a huddle of old women, who were regarding them skeptically from a nearby vegetable stall. Probably had something to do with the crossbow in her hands, but you never knew.

"Yeah, but that's because you're being a loud American tourist," said Courtney with the air of one explaining that two plus two equaled four. "Don't worry, Faith. This is Hanselstadt. The Slayers will come find us."

Luckily, Giles returned before Faith could do more than grind her teeth. He carried a white paper bag in one arm. "Blachindla," he announced.

"Gesundheit. Fancy that. I do know some German. What's a backindly whatsits?"

The Watcher merely smiled enigmatically and tilted the open bag towards the Slayers.

Reaching in, Faith pulled out what appeared to be a regular fried turnover, semilunar in shape and crispy golden brown on the outside. It smelled like a turnover, too, and she couldn't imagine Giles intentionally poisoning her. Even so, she just took a small, cautious bite at the corner. Courtney had no such compunctions. She chomped down on the turnover, tearing a quarter of it off, revealing an orange-colored filling.

"It's pumpkin!"

Faith swallowed her corner of fried dough and took another, larger bite. "It is. Weird. I'm not used to pumpkin outside of Thanksgiving. And, I guess Christmas. What's it called again?"

"Bla-chind-la," enunciated Giles.

"I like it. How many did you get?" Halfway finished with her blachindla, Courtney was already eying the paper bag once again.

"Enough for all of us to have two. I assume that will be sufficient?"

"Thanks, G-man."

"Not at all." Giles stuffed his free hand into the pocket of his tweed trousers. "Anything of note happen in my absence?"

"Faith doesn't believe in Hanselstadt."

"You make it sound like Santa Claus. Look, I'm not saying anything, except that I don't see any signs of Slayers."

"Perhaps they are otherwise occupied?"

"That's what I told her!"

It wasn't, really, but attempting to make the distinction would be useless. "All right, all right, I'll stop being Scrooge."

"Thank you!"

That settled for the moment, they continued their walk through the market. When they came to the last vendor, the three turned around and reversed their steps back towards the church. The market was closing down now, its crowds dispersed to their homes and businesses, leaving only a few bruised apples and abandoned potatoes on the cobblestones and a vast number of cigarette butts in the gutters.

Faith suggested they might as well check out the church since they had really no direction going forward. She wasn't sure what Courtney had been expecting – a sign, someone with a sandwich board, a freakin' parade – but as long as they were waiting for whatever it was to happen, the Slayer wanted to do some exploring. She slipped in through the heavy wooden doors of the church, out of the brisk afternoon sunlight and into the dim, cool expanse of the chapel.

Glancing up at the arching ceilings overhead, Faith walked carefully, rolling through the heel-ball-toe to minimize the vague echoes of her footsteps. The Slayer looked all about her. At three in the afternoon, the church was mostly deserted, apart from a few scattered women in the pews nearest the altar.

Someone was practicing on the pipe organ, which churned out four-part harmonies that were miraculously in tune, given the dark tarnish on the silver pipes. Perhaps another person would have recognized the polyphony as familiar Lutheran hymns, but church had never been part of Faith's childhood, and all she could think was how the melodies rose and fell. She could not have named the songs, but they gave her hope with their swooping and soaring. In some way, the unseen organist was pressing her keys, pulling her stops, playing upon her emotions with the same dexterity as he played the old pipe organ.

Sinking into a pew at the rear of the chapel, Faith winced as her back protested the uncomfortable lines of the wooden seat. It forced her to sit up too straight, shoulders directly above navel, navel directly above hips, moto boots pressed firmly into the floor, her knees jutting forward against the pew ahead of her. She had left the others outside, trusting Giles could babysit solo for fifteen minutes. She needed some time to think.

Life hadn't been that way, in the past. Reflection used to be something the Slayer avoided like the plague. And then Stockton had happened. Some women found God in prison. Others found anger or tobacco or alcohol or drugs. Faith already had three out of the last four, and neither God nor drugs were really her cup of tea. So she found meditation, instead.

Not that this signified some grandiose shift in her personality. As ever, the Slayer came most alive on the dance floor or in the middle of a fight. That hadn't changed. But sometimes now, she craved something else – the stillness of thought. It was nothing but pure irony that she tended to find that stillness in a church.

Faith angled her head backwards against the top of the pew, closing her eyes and letting the organ music wash over her. There was too much stuff racketing around in her head: jet lag, exhaustion, mild culture shock, irritation, a hint of regret that she was here on some wild goose chase instead of back in the States staking vamps and taking names. She breathed slowly, counting to seven on each inhale, each exhale, and the moments in between.

The pressure of the pew against her neck was awkward, but her hair cushioned it enough to make the pain no more than a fleeting distraction on her path to mental clarity. One by one, the Slayer let her concerns take center stage, each one looming in the forefront of her mind while she gave it her complete attention and then banished it away.

Courtney was aggravatingly childish? At least she was still innocent and protected enough to be a child. She had no desire to be playing Sherlock Holmes? Well, when sh-t hit the fan, and the nightmares came crawling out of the woodwork, there would be no need to investigate for the trouble. The trouble would find her. And the food here was way better than in Louisiana – or prison.

Ten minutes, and she felt settled again. Faith rose to her feet, brushing her fingers along the glossy patina of the old wood. If God was out there, she didn't think he'd have minded her borrowing his space for a bit. Besides, if God was out there, she was doing him a favor by going after the things that killed his children.

The Slayer moved silently to the door, easing it open to avoid disturbing their other worshippers. She walked back into the sunlight. Maybe Giles could ask someone where the cemetery was.

In her absence, Giles and Courtney had been strolling around the churchyard, and they rounded the rear corner as she stepped outside.

"See anything interesting?"

The Watcher nodded. "There's a tidy little graveyard on the other side – tombstones date back to 1671 – that was the oldest inscription I saw. But unless you can read German . . ."

"The dates aren't in German." Courtney's reminder managed to be both cheerful and reproachful. " I thought it was nice, peaceful. What did you do inside the church?"

"I thought," Faith said succinctly and honestly. "Trying to suss this all out – a world where Slayers don't have to fight." Well, she'd started out honest enough.

"You believe me?"

"Not gonna lie, I'm still waiting for someone to jump out and shout, 'Boo!', but I'm willing to admit I might be wrong."

"Indeed?" Giles was watching her, all subtly raised inflection and questioning gaze.

"We'll wait and see," hedged the Slayer. She hoped her eyes communicated those things she didn't think would be productive to say in front of Courtney – namely, her absolute refusal to obey the proverb about never looking a gift horse in the mouth. When someone gave you a horse, it was best to examine  _all_  the teeth, especially the ones at the back, even if that did give them an extra chance to bite you.

"Rupert Giles?"

The voice came from over Faith's shoulder, and she spun around to see a man in his mid-sixties, roughly five-nine, wearing khaki trousers with a red sweater. An expensive red sweater at that, if the little silhouette of a polo player on the collar meant anything. He had a bit of a paunch around his middle, and Faith could sense uptightness just by looking at that razor sharp part on the left side of his forehead and the way his thinning gray hair was immaculately combed over.

"Duncan? Duncan Fillworthe?" Moving past the Slayers, Giles embraced the newcomer, smiling more broadly than Faith could remember ever seeing, at least since that madcap celebratory week post the destruction of Sunnyhell. "It's been what, five years?" he asked as the two men separated.

"Or more. I retired in . . . let me see . . . early 2002. Lucky for me that I did – not long after that, the Council headquarters were bombed."

"I remember. If I might make introductions? Faith, Courtney, this is Duncan Fillworthe, formerly of the Watcher's Council. Duncan taught me half of what I know – the good half, I should add. Duncan, meet Faith and Courtney – both Slayers."

Faith shook the new guy's hand and was surprised by the strength of his grip. "Nice to meet you," she said, slightly uncomfortable under the man's direct gaze. People didn't usually look at her that forcefully.

"Faith . . . not the same Faith that . . .?" He made his unspoken question sound delicate even as it picked at half-healed scabs to peer underneath them.

Wind whooshing out of her sails, Faith nodded. "Black sheep of the Slayer family, that's me."

Knowing that nothing good could come of pursuing this topic, Giles stepped in. "Duncan, we, er, actually came here because word has it that the town of Hanselstadt is magically protected. That Slayers flock here for the safety it affords."

Duncan laughed, but it didn't quite reach his pale gray eyes, which were still fixed on the Dark Slayer, a mixture of curiosity and caution in their depths. "What did I always say? Rupert Giles has the best sources of any man on the Council. That's right. There are no vampires in Hanselstadt. No vampires, no werewolves, no demons, no monsters of any sort. We have about fifteen or so Slayers at present. Most of them board with local families and study German."

"And you think that prudent?" The other Watcher was genuinely interested in the answer. As for Courtney, she hung on Duncan's every word, her fingers twisted in the loose fabric of Faith's jean jacket, not understanding why Faith kept almost blocking her view.

"What would you have them do, Rupert? Go out and fight all the evils of the world? Die before they reach the age of eighteen? Never love, never settle down or have families, to never really live? If you ask me, more places like Hanselstadt should exist. When the witch Willow granted power to all of the potential Slayers, she never bothered to ask them whether or not they wanted it. The power or the terrible responsibility that accompanies it. It seems only natural to me that with hundreds of Slayers in the world now, those who would choose a quiet life ought to be allowed to do so. You should not force a young girl to fight against her will."

"We don't. Buffy would never ask anyone to do something that she was not willing to do herself," defended Giles, his voice growing steely.

Before the Brit could get his dander up any further, Faith interjected, "Look, Mr. Fillworthe, we're not here to force anyone to do anything. We're just curious. Heard about this place and wanted to check it out. Who knows?" she added with a twisted smile, "I might even get the urge to move across the pond and settle down here."

Turning his attention back to her, Fillworthe visibly calmed himself. "You should talk with the other girls. I am sure you would find it most enlightening."

Courtney responded instantly, not giving either of the others a chance to do so. "Excellent idea," she beamed. "Where can we find them?"

"I believe they are currently studying in the library. You'll find it on the other side of the village, near the southernmost spurs of the hill. I can draw you a map, if you'd like."

"No thanks. We can find it. Giles, what's German for library?"

"Bibliothek should work, I think."

"Oh!" The fourteen-year-old perked up even further. "Just like in French!"

Giles had to smile at her enthusiasm, even as his inner linguist winced. "The spelling is different, but phonetically the words are not dissimilar."

"Bibliothek?" Faith tried out the word, letting it roll around in her mouth. "Bibliothek. Okay, yeah. We'll go find the library."

As she followed the bouncing teenager down the street, the Slayer glanced over her shoulder one last time and locked eyes with Giles. A silent message passed between them.  _Take care of her_. Faith nodded and allowed Courtney to tug her away.

"You think we can find the library?"

"Not a clue." Faith listened to the murmuring conversation between the two Watchers until it faded into silence.

Hopefully, with the bothersome girls out of the way, Giles could use their old guy camaraderie to get to the bottom of things. Who the Slayers were, why they were here, how exactly Hanselstadt was protected from the creatures that went bump in the night. Fillworthe had to know about it – all the nitty gritty details. He had the look of a guy who was all about control. Whatever was going on here, innocent or not, Faith's gut told her that Fillworthe was up to his neck in it.

The two Slayers wandered back along the Main Street, allowing it to lead them in their descent down the hill. Courtney chattered the entire time, unable to stem the tide of bubbly excitement, completely relaxed despite the grim expression on the face of the woman next to her.

"Isn't it great?" she repeated for the dozenth time, executing a sloppy spin, her arms flung out on either side. "Here, Slayers don't have to be special. We don't have to be different. We can be normal!" She stopped spinning and smiled beatifically. "Aren't you excited, Faith? Don't you want to be normal?"

"Slayer's who I am, Court. Who we are."

"I wanted to play rugby, not kill things," persisted the mulish teenager.

Faith had no answer for that. Nothing that would be helpful, anyway. So she kept her mouth shut, limited her responses to a nonverbal "Mmm." The Slayer turned down a narrow side street, heading south. Her boots thudded steadily on the dirty cobblestones, a sharp contrast to the light tread of Courtney's bright pink converse. Unfortunately, Giles had been unable to find a map of Hanselstadt before they left the hotel, and she had to navigate by instinct.  _If I was a library, what would I look like?_

In the end, they had to stop a passerby on the street and ask for the bibliothek. Luckily, the woman spoke English, and she pointed them towards a gray stone building with a slate roof visible from where they stood, perhaps five hundred yards and three streets away. A couple of alleys and a dodged Audi later, they walked up to the library.

Courtney tried the brass handle on the bright crimson door, only to find it locked. "Seriously?" she demanded of the cosmos. "We're so close. Are they not open?"

The older Slayer investigated the placard beside the door and attempted to interpret the faintly typed German script. "Says oh-eight to seventeen hours over here. Why don't you knock?"

Rapping three times on the wood, as hard as she could, the girl rocked back on her heels. "Mr. Fillworthe said they were here."

It was difficult to focus on Courtney's words over the automatic buzzing of the Stones in her brain.  _I see a red door, and I want it painted black._ Unwilling to wait for the librarian, Faith reached for the door handle herself. She rattled the door in its track, back and forth, back and forth. Then, pulling it to as tight as she could, the woman slammed it with her shoulder, breaking the sturdy old lock and popping the door open five inches.

"I hope they don't get upset about that. Couldn't we have picked it?"

Too late, Faith recalled the thin leather wallet of lockpicks tucked into her quiver on her back. "This was faster," she said, her voice brusque to drown out the imagined reproach drawling its husky way to life inside her head.  _Slow it down, Slayer girl._ Shades of Camp Premiere.

Brushing her thoughts aside, the Slayer pushed the broken door the rest of the way open. The library entry was dank and dark, with a faint hint of mold and mildew. Pale gray dust blanketed the brick floor – not a week's untidiness but the concentrated effort of months of dust bunny fornication. A series of footprints passed along the entryway into the dark hall beyond an ancient front desk, complete with carved lion's feet.

"Not very clean, these Slayers." Faith's eyes flickered to all the corners of the dimly lit front room. The faint light coming in through the shuttered windows was enough to see by, but only just. "Please tell me you brought a flashlight." Hers was somewhere in Ohio. A moment of foolish forgetfulness, but unlikely to prove fatal.

"Where is everyone?" the fourteen-year-old asked, digging in the pocket of her jacket for a mini-Maglite. "Will this torch be okay?"

"Yeah. You keep it." The woman drew a crossbow out of her quiver and slid it into place along the bowstring. She pointed the tip of the bolt at the ground a few feet in front of her, feeling a little more secure.

"What are you doing?" hissed Courtney.

The Slayer spoke softly. "I've got a feeling we aren't in Kansas anymore."

"What?"

Kids these days. "Come on. Stay behind me. Keep the light at waist level."

Faith tracked the footprints in the dust through the first room full of books and into the hallway beyond. In the weak beam of Courtney's torch, she caught glimpses of bookshelves laden with leather-bound volumes, old armchairs at individual study tables, and other, smaller rooms that opened off of the main area. Her immediate impression of the library as silent and deserted remained unchanged. Either Fillworthe had been mistaken, or he was lying. There were no Slayers here.

"I feel like the last damned unicorn," she grumbled under her breath as she followed the footprints to their end in front of another door, this one marked "Kellergeschoss."

"What does that mean?" whispered the girl at her back, one of her hands clutching at the back of Faith's jean jacket. On their trek through the library, her comments had grown quieter and more and more crestfallen.

"I don't speak German."

"That's comforting."

The Slayer shrugged. "So shoot me."

"Not a great choice of words." To her credit, there was only a trace of hysteria in Courtney's giggle.

"Sorry." She tried the Kellergeschoss door. It creaked open at her touch, swinging backwards on its hinges to reveal a darkened metal staircase.

"Are we . . . are you going down there?"

Gesturing towards the path of the flashlight, Faith indicated the single, dusty footprint on the uppermost stair. "Someone went downstairs."

"That doesn't mean we have to – right?"

Had she ever been this hesitant, this scared? She didn't think so. Slaying had rescued her. It had pulled her out of the freak show of foster homes and klepto boyfriends and the horrible truths she wasn't willing to face about her mother, and herself. Faith had welcomed the change to escape her old life, and she had clung onto the Slayer calling with both hands – and her feet, and her teeth, for good measure. Tooth and claw, as the expression went. Being a part of something, having a mission, being given an enemy and told to  _fight_ , it had been her salvation. For a little while.

In the depths of the Slayer's soul, there wasn't a shred of her that would trade her power, her strength, for the chance to go back to her life in Boston again. Still, she found sympathy for the younger girl's plight. This was Courtney's first real mission. Since she was so young, Giles had been keen to keep her out of the action until she was at least sixteen.

Faith remembered that case in Ohio with the snake women. Lily and Becka had been green, then, too. Green and terrified about facing something they'd only read about in Paracelsus a few hours previous. Courtney had had less training, and the unknown, lurking at the bottom of a dark staircase, could be even more terrifying than a Vetala.

"Sorry." She attempted to convey the right mixture of apology and regret. "But we've gotta figure out what's going on here, and the crossbow takes two hands. I need you to be brave, Court. Can you do that for me?"

The teenager swallowed and blinked rapidly. "I can try. Do you think there's something down there?"

"No idea. I'll keep going in front, just in case. If something happens, run like hell out of here and find Giles. Don't try anything heroic and stupid. I can take care of myself. All right?"

"Okay . . ."

_Take care of yourself – is that Slayer-slang for having a death wish the size of Alaska?_ taunted an uncomfortably familiar deep voice.

_Shut up, Kansas. I got work to do,_  Faith thought back in aggravated frustration.

"I mean it, Courtney. First sign of trouble, you go get help. Promise me."

"I promise."

"Okay. Let's go." The Slayer tested the first step, hesitantly placing the ball of her foot on the tarnished metal, the majority of her weight still on her back leg. Gradually, she shifted half of her weight onto the stair. It held. She tested the next three steps in a similar manner before deciding the staircase was trustworthy. "Remember, you promised to run," she warned one last time, beginning her descent.

The stairway was steep, and it spiraled downwards, making a complete turn every six steps or so. Faith counted twenty stairs as they ventured into the basement of the library. With the sharp twists of the staircase, the thready beam of the flashlight was practically useless here. The Slayer relied on her feet to manage the stairs and on her eyes to pierce the heavy darkness threatening to engulf them. Good thing she'd had lots of practice in strange cemeteries on cloudy nights.

When her boots touched concrete instead of metal, Faith knew they had reached the bottom. "You still good?" she asked quietly, both to check in on her charge and to gauge the size of the room. Her voice fell flat, muffled, rather than echoing. So this basement wasn't too huge and empty then.

"Yeah." The girl turned her flashlight in various directions in an attempt to make out the room. The thin light flickered and went out, plunging them into complete blackness. A chilly draft of air rushed past them, and the door at the top of the stairs slammed closed with a final thud.

Courtney frantically clicked the flashlight button over and over again. "Why isn't it turning on?" Her voice rose high in panic. "I put new batteries in yesterday. I don't know what's going on. Faith?" She stumbled forward in the darkness, colliding with the solid older Slayer. "Faith? Should I draw my knife?"

But Faith was too busy listening to the soft, ominous rustle of something dragging against the concrete floor. The temperature dropped even further as the rustling grew louder.

"Frak," she growled. Whatever was in the basement with them, it already knew they were there. No point in trying to be quiet now. "I hate it when I'm right."

 


	37. Somewhere That's Green, pt 3

"Faith?" Courtney asked tremulously, clinging to the older woman's jacket as the scraping sound of something moving over the basement floor approached. "Faith, we've got to get out of here." She tugged on Faith in an attempt to drag her back to the staircase. "Come on, let's go!"

"Not gonna help." But Faith took a step backwards anyway, to relieve the pressure threatening to disrupt her balance. "Pretty sure that door's locked."

"So you can kick it open.  _Please_." The whisper reeked of desperation.

Shaking her head, the Slayer pointed her crossbow in the direction of the scraping. "Come on, you ugly piece of crap. Grow a pair and show yourself." Goosebumps blossomed being on her arms, and something that felt like cold water trickled down her spine.

When the words came at last, they were almost a relief from the terrible possibilities of the dark. " _Slayer._ "

"That's me. Now why don't you go ahead and introduce yourself?"

Bright light flashed into being and dazzled the Slayer. For a long moment, all she could see were stars. Eventually, the stars cleared to reveal a long, empty white hallway stretching out in front of her. Walking down the hallway was a slender figure, roughly shoulder-height, if she had to estimate, dressed like some theatre major's idea of a classy pirate and sporting yellow eyes and jagged ivory fangs. The extraordinary puffiness of his silky white shirt nearly swallowed the child vampire.

"Lafitte," Faith hissed, in a mixture of shock and distaste. "You can't be here. I killed you myself."

"I am not the only thing you killed, Slayer," purred Lafitte, now a mere ten feet away. In his arms, he carried the bloodstained, crumpled body of a dog. The vampire waited until her eyes locked upon the corpse, and then he hurled it to the floor, crushing the dog's skull beneath his exquisite black leather boots. "Your little pet says, hello, by the way. Or he would, if his jaw were still attached…"

The Slayer's fingers twitched on the bowstring, and a quarrel flew through the air, piercing Lafitte straight through the heart. Laughing, the vampire child snapped his fingers, and the crossbow bolt vanished, as if it had never been. "You're going to have to try harder than that," he mocked.

"Courtney, run." Faith batted at the girl behind her, urging her with hands and voice back to the staircase. She had no idea how Lafitte had survived, only to end up here, but she would figure that out later, once she survived. "You have the strength. You can break down the door."

"She can't hear you," taunted Jean Pierre Lafitte. The air clouded around him into a dark, unforgiving gray mass, and then cleared itself to reveal Wesley Wyndham-Price, sitting on the ground, both of his eyes blackened, his bottom lip swollen to the size of a small melon, and a series of knife wounds covering his face and arms. He looked up at her with a malice that made the Slayer's blood run cold.

"Wes – "

"Really, Faith, no one can hear you. You're going to die alone down here – just like I did."

In the darkened basement of the Hanselstadt Municipal Library, a figure crashed to the concrete floor, her body spasming uncontrollably, a loaded crossbow falling from nerveless fingers to lie abandoned at her side. Fourteen-year-old Courtney could not see her hand six inches in front of her face, but she felt Faith topple forward. And then a sickly green light spread throughout the old storeroom, and the teenager came face-to-face with the creature rustling and scraping its way towards her. There were too many limbs, all of them green and tentacled. She screamed.

* * *

Giles waited until the Slayers disappeared around the nearest corner before turning to his old friend. "Is there a convenient café about, perhaps?" he suggested. "Or a mostly empty pub? There . . . there is quite a bit that I should like to discuss with you."

Glancing at his watch, Duncan Fillworthe smiled cannily. "It's past your teatime, isn't it, Rupert? No need to fool me – I can see straight through you."

"I regret to admit that you are correct. A good cup of tea would go a long way to helping me sort out all the questions in my head so that I can ask them in an organized fashion."

With a dry chuckle, Duncan led the way through a narrow lane behind the church to a small, grungy bar. The two men stepped inside to find the barman the only occupant. He sniffed in great disdain when they requested a pot of tea, but said he thought he could provide one. Ten minutes later, and the former Watchers were deeply ensconced in reminiscing about the good old days of the Council.

"So, tell me, Duncan, why Germany?" Giles asked at length, once he had gotten a cup and a half of strong tea in his stomach. "I always thought you were rather fond of Spain."

"Same reason that you floated around California for so long – the work, the Council. It is difficult to abandon. Some might say impossible to abandon. Word came to me of Hanselstadt, and I knew that no sunny villa on the southern coasts would make do, then – not when I could come here and help Slayers on their path to enlightenment – fulfill my calling as a Watcher, you know. These girls either have no families, or they have been rejected by their families because of their call. They are orphans now. They need guidance. And who better to guide them than a Watcher?"

"Not all the girls today have Watchers," commented Giles, taking another sip of his tea. It was ghastly and tasted as though feet had been steeped in it alongside the tea bags. Not just any feet, either. Troll feet. Still, it was tea. "We serve more as research consultants and personal trainers than commanding officers – too spread out, you see."

The other man sat up a little straighter in his chair and puffed out his chest. A hint of bitterness crept into his voice. "When that blonde of yours rejected the Council – "

"Buffy."

"Yes, right, Buffy, then . . . there would have been fewer Potentials lost in the battle with the First if she had relied on our knowledge and power."

The taller Englishman sighed. "Duncan, you know it isn't that simple."

"Isn't it? She bit the hand that fed her – the hand that made her! – and look at all the carnage that followed."

Suspicion was slowly trickling up from Giles' primitive hindbrain into his higher cognitive processing centers. "I know Buffy's tactics have been controversial," he soothed, "but surely you cannot still hold a grudge – "

"She poisons all the others," continued Fillworthe. "Corrupts them into forgetting their responsibilities and abandoning their vows. Ruining the honored legacy of the Council of Watchers. Just look at that murderous whore she keeps around."

"I am sure Buffy would argue for Faith as a corrupter rather than a corruptee." Giles stressed the final syllable. "That is the general viewpoint, at any rate. And although Faith's past is undoubtably colourful, she is no longer the person she was at eighteen. She has reformed."

"Murderers don't change." Fillworthe swallowed his now-lukewarm tea in one go. The man quivered with emotion as words slipped past his ironclad self-control. "The Slayers – all of them, mind – have betrayed their true purpose."

Giles' suspicion had ceased creeping and now trumpeted its panic throughout his synapses. "You cannot believe that. Duncan, you are one of the most kind and open-minded men I have ever known. You cannot blame all Slayers because you disagree with Buffy's choices. Not while supporting a Slayer utopia."

" _Evil?_  You wish to discuss  _evil_? This town has no children, Rupert."

This apparent non sequitur brought the former librarian up short, like a choke collar on a recalcitrant Labrador. "What do you mean?"

A dam had broken somewhere in Duncan Fillworthe's mind, and now the words came pouring out, unstoppable. "Where are the children, Giles? Did you see any today? No, of course you didn't. There are none. This town is sick. All the children vanish. I wrote to your blessed Slayer's headquarters, placed calls, but they went unanswered. More and more children died. Until finally, a novice Slayer appeared to tame the metaphorical dragon, and a new solution presented itself. Slay the Slayers, save the children."

"You're mad." Giles got to his feet, his lined face a rictus of horror. The final puzzle pieces slotted into place in his mind.

Fillworthe rose as well, and although his face was crimson with passion, he kept his voice to a harsh whisper. "I'm saving this village! Hanselstadt will survive because of me!"

Rupert Giles did not have time for this. He glanced down at his watch. Already, half an hour had passed since Courtney and Faith left for the library. He had to act now.

The Watcher lashed out with a right hook, his arm snapping out from the elbow. The punch caught Duncan on the chin and slammed him down into his seat, knocking him unconscious. Giles sprinted out of the bar, leaving his half-full cup of tea behind, heedless of the barman's angry shouts. Legs churning faster than any of his Slayer trainees would ever have guessed, he raced down the hill.

Library. Library. Library. He could only pray that he would not be too late.

* * *

Courtney stared in terror at the monster looming out of the dark basement at her. She was young, new to observations and estimating the size of things by eyeballing them. Faith could have told her that the creature was fifteen feet tall by about ten feet wide, with thirty-six arms, nasty, jagged-looking suckers on their undersides, twelve bulbous yellow-white eyes that glowed red in the center, and rows and rows of serrated teeth. The whole thing probably weighed three tons – at least. The Slayer would also have noted the darkling pool of fetid water at the feet of the beast and would have added another sixty inches of height to account for the part of the beast still in the water.

All Courtney knew was that this monster was impossibly large –  _huge_ , really – and that it would haunt her nightmares until the day she died. Given the tentacled arms currently outstretching towards her, those nightmares might not last very long. This cold comfort did nothing to lessen her fear.

The beast groped towards her, its cumbrous green body shifting across the pitted concrete. Petrified, Courtney watched its approach. Narrowing its dozen eyes, the creature hesitated, several of its tentacles frozen, partially extended towards the teenager, eight more arms reaching for the older Slayer, lying facedown and still three feet away. It paused to savor the despair and horror and regret rolling off the woman in waves.

A thousand years it had waited, in the dark caverns beneath the library, consuming whatever luckless souls wandered its way. Human, vampire, adult, child, it had devoured all things, living or undead. The misery and sorrow of its hapless victims were the bouquet, even more invigorating and delicious than the meat and marrow that followed. Children were so delicious. As much as its mind was capable, it regretted the lack of them. But the latest series of dinners, the young women who were almost children and full of such a heady mixture of power and fear, they were nearly as good.

In no classification system would the creature have been deemed intelligent. It was ancient, a demon from the time of the Old Ones, left behind, abandoned and forgotten, when its masters were overthrown by the mud apes. It was not smart. It could not think in words and had no concept of language, but it was very, very cunning and very, very old. It had power and magic and concentration aplenty, and right now, the monster sensed that the older mind was the more dangerous of the two. So it had silenced her first, locking her into her worst failures and losses, trapped in her own mind, while it decided what to do. And now for the smaller one . . .

"Courtney, love, why did you leave us?"

"Mum?" The fourteen-year-old whirled to see her mother descending the stairs, a sad frown turning down the corners of her mouth. "Mum? What are you doing here?"

"Courtney, you've broken my heart," said the apparition, not with an overdramatic sob but with devastated resignation. "Why did you leave?"

"I didn't mean to, Mum," sobbed the girl. "Please. I love you. I'm sorry."

"You left. Your father left. It ruined everything, this stupid hobby of yours. Why couldn't you have been a normal girl?"

"Mum! I'm sorry!" She dropped her borrowed knife and turned to plead with her mother. A fatal move.

The tide turned in the creature's mind, and its arms streaked out into the darkness, wrapping around the girl's waist and dragging her towards its gaping maw. So wracked was she by the vision of her mother, Courtney did not even struggle.

* * *

"Please, Wes. Please. I'm sorry. Make it stop." Faith could not recall ever feeling so windswept or nauseous, buffeted about at every turn by the specters of her past.

Buddy, dead. The first vampire she had ever confronted, who escaped and went on to murder another four people before she caught up with it and did her job properly. There were other things, worse ones. Hordes and hordes of people that Faith did not recognize, all bruised and bloody and watching her with haunted, accusing eyes.

It was so cold, so damn cold, much worse than a Boston night in the middle of winter when the heater had gone out. Throughout it all, Wesley sat on the ground, her personal ghost of nightmares past. At first, he had castigated her, laying at her door all of the awful misery that her existence had brought into the world. Now he just sat there and let Faith's imagination do the berating on its own.

_Help us_ , hissed a new voice as three skeletal girls pushed their way through the crowd of ghosts. Their outlines were vague in comparison with the almost painful clarity of the others. Skin, hair, clothing – on these three, it all blurred together. Their leader's voice fell soft and cold, like a pensive sleeting rain.

Faith had allowed her tormentors to back her into the corner of the room. For the last eternity, it seemed, she had been sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest, her face buried in her arms. She slowly forced herself to her feet, moving like a wind-up toy at the very end of its spring.

"Who are you?" she demanded, moving past Wesley to approach the figures. The prospect of a mystery and the extreme chill that accompanied the three shapes tugged her out of her own skull and back into the game. Fleeting thoughts darted through her head – danger? Courtney? – but then vanished.

_Help us,_  repeated the voice. And then a third time,  _Help us, sister._

"How am I your sister?"

The shadowy trio surrounded her, placing their hands on her shoulders, touching her arms, hair, skin, back.  _Sister,_ said all three of them at once. This close, their jaws did not move. No mouths or eyes existed in those featureless faces. The trio had spoken, but Faith could not say how they had spoken. Words simply appeared in her mind.

_Sister,_  intoned the three a second time, and now images followed. A dark, empty basement. A demon that glowed a fell, phosphorescent green. Someone pounding on a door above her. Cold stone beneath her cheek. A girl screaming for her mother.

_Sister_. As the images faded, the ghosts clung to her. One of them was stroking the side of her face from forehead to ear to the curve of her jawline. Enveloped in their icy embrace, the Slayer listened to desperate whispers.  _Help us. Avenge us. Free us._

She knew them now and wondered how she could have neglected to notice their presence. In part of her mind, Faith suspected she had guessed at their existence ever since the door slammed. "Sisters?" she said questioningly. A single tear slid out from the corner of her left eye. Her hands passed through the amorphous girls, the dead Slayers, but still she made to touch them. "I'm sorry."

_Not your fault._ It was the third voice, the one that had asked her to save them.

_You did not know,_  echoed the leader.  _But now . . . ._

_Now you can help us._  Triumph surged in the avenging voice.  _You are Faith. You can right this._

The sounds of shouts and screams were coming back, louder than before. Faith could hear a man bellowing furiously.

_Wake up,_  ordered the leader, her words imbued with a new sense of urgency.

_Wake up_ , said all three ghosts together.  _Wake. Up. NOW._

Faith's eyes sprang open, and she leapt to her feet, just in time to see a crossbow quarrel flying through the air, on a perfect collision course to plunge into her heart.

* * *

Giles found the library fairly quickly, reading the street signs as he went. He saw the broken-in red door, a shrieking sign that all was not well. Charging in, he followed the trail of footsteps deeper and deeper into the heart of the library. In the dark, the librarian moved silently, opening his laptop bag to withdraw a sword and a flare gun. His other supplies, designed with vampires in mind, he dropped behind a bookshelf. Whatever lived here, whatever Duncan was plotting with, Giles doubted it was something as innocuous as a fang infestation.

The dusty path ended in front of a locked door labeled "basement." He pressed his ear to the oaken wood. Through it, he could hear faint screams. They were high-pitched – very high-pitched. Must be Courtney. That scared him, scared him deep in his bones. If Courtney was screaming, with no response from Faith . . . the veteran Slayer was most likely dead.

Lifting his sword, the Watcher slammed the hilt down onto the metal doorknob, breaking the lock. He kicked the door the rest of the way open and rushed down the stairs towards the sinister green light at the bottom.

At the base of the stairs, he stopped, surveying the room, taking in Faith, lying on the floor, and Courtney, locked tight in the clutches of a  _thing_ , a thing that he'd never seen in any of his books and had no name for.

"Mom! I'm sorry for ruining everything!" sobbed the girl, lost in a daze, as the monster brought her closer and closer to its mouth.

Giles covered the last few feet in two steps and began hacking away at whatever parts of the creature he could reach with his sword in an effort to distract it from Courtney. Consumed by his task, he did not hear the clang of other footsteps descending the staircase behind him.

Eyes hollow with madness, Duncan Fillworthe hurtled down the steps, a darkened bruise already blossoming beneath his left eye. The former Watcher snatched up the abandoned crossbow on the floor. He had to end this now. Jamming a new bolt into the bow, he fired one shot at the other man's back. It went wild, flying over Giles' shoulder to clatter against the wall. Duncan loaded another quarrel and turned his bow on the unconscious Slayer.

"Rupert, you might as well give up now. None of you are walking out of here."

The librarian didn't dare quit chopping at the creature, which was showing zero interest in his attack, all its intent focused on the teenager almost flush with its gaping teeth. Every time he sliced off one of its limbs, the monster passed Courtney off to another arm. Still, he spared Fillworthe a single glance and recognized the danger. "Faith! Wake up!"

Just as Fillworthe fired a second time, the woman moved. She jumped and dodged to the side, sending the quarrel zooming past her left shoulder and missing it by inches. Faith took in the scene with a muttered expletive. Shaking off a lingering chill, she rushed Fillworthe. The Slayer lashed out with her boot and kicked him in the stomach. He crumpled to the concrete.

Drawing her dirk, Faith joined the onslaught against the creature. Each stroke of her blade, brought down on tentacle after tentacle, drove through skin, muscle, and cartilage. One of the beast's arms slipped around her chest and squeezed tightly. Faith choked as her lungs were unable to expand. The suckers on the tentacle pierced through her clothing and dug into her skin, a dozen tiny knives stabbing her ribs and back.

"Uh uh." The Slayer writhed in the creature's grasp jerking and twisting until she got one arm loose. Then she drove her dirk into its arm, wherever she could, over and over until she had mangled it beyond repair. Its tentacle no longer functioning, the creature released her.

Faith drew in a deep, staggering breath. "Not today, Octobitch. Not today." She threw herself back into the fight, screaming at Courtney, yelling for her to wake up even as she lobbed off another of the monster's arms, fighting her way closer to the fourteen-year-old.

Something clicked in Courtney's bewitched brain, and she blinked. The film of delusion fell from her eyes. She began to squirm, punching and kicking at the monster. While she did not have a great deal of room to swing, the sudden fight in its limp prey, combined with the two annoying creatures biting into its flesh, caused the monster to loosen its grip just enough for Courtney to slip free. She tumbled to the ground and landed hard on one knee. Scrambling upright, the girl scurried across the room to reclaim her Bowie knife.

The creature reached back out for its dinner, but then hesitated in momentary confusion. Where there had been two terrified minds were now three furious ones, burning with rage and purpose and, in the case of the older female, vengeance. It was forced to fight in three directions at once, and distraction reduced its effectiveness. These meals were more painful than they were worth, and it contemplated sinking back into its dark waters. Even the bottomless hunger was preferable to this constant stinging.

But then it noticed the fourth mind, the unconscious one. Employing all its cunning, the monster sent three tentacles surging outwards towards its attackers, sacrificing a few more limbs to occupy them. Simultaneously, half a dozen tentacles crept along the concrete and cocooned the limp man. They lifted him into the air in triumph and bore him back to the creature.

The change in position roused Fillworthe. He opened his eyes to see the ground sinking away from him. "Giles!" he screamed. "Help me! I – I am sorry! I will do whatever you want. Just help me!"

Giles did not pause. He instantly shifted his attack to reach Fillworthe. "Faith!"

Sweat coursing down her forehead, the Slayer looked to him in complete consternation. "Really?! He tried to get us killed – he killed  _them_!" She gestured wildly around the room to figures that only she could see.

"Faith!"

It was hard to disobey that Watcher voice, not when she'd spent years reprimanding herself for not listening to it. Snarling her displeasure, Faith turned and began working her way to Fillworthe. "Hold on, scumbag. We'll get you."

"Help! Help!" babbled the old man. "I made a mistake! It's my fault. Help me!"

His moment of repentance was enough for the monster. Committing fully to a plan, it ceased defending itself against the three on the ground and popped the Watcher into its mouth. Duncan was lost to view beneath the slavering of ivory fangs and the violent spray of arterial blood.

"Holy sh-t," gasped Courtney, stumbling backwards as blood splashed over her. "Holy sh-t."

Faith made an executive decision. Swords were not working. She darted forward and retrieved her crossbow. In the space of sixty seconds, she got off five shots. Her arrows slammed into the monster, puncturing several of its eyes. Relentless, the beast continued to chew, a horrendous, rasping, wet sound. It began to stretch its arms out again, feeling for Courtney one last time.

"Giles! Flare gun!" The Slayer waited for the Watcher to fire flares into the creature's face, and then she shot into the flames. The quarrels ripped through the creature's skin, exposing it to the chemicals and flames from the flares, allowing them to touch the fat and muscle beneath in a potent reaction.

With no warning, the monster exploded into a rain of fiery green sludge. Foul-smelling chunks rained down upon the three fighters. Giles absent-mindedly patted a flame out on the sleeve of his tweed suit-jacket. Wincing at the stench in the air, Faith grabbed Courtney around the waist and started hauling her to the staircase.

"Come on, Giles. Let's get out of here before anything else goes boom."

 


	38. Somewhere That's Green, pt 4

**May 22** **nd** **, 2006, Hanselstadt, Germany, 6:00 p.m.**

Giles waited until they were halfway back to the church before speaking. "You did well back there – thinking on your feet."

Nearly at the end of her rope, Faith hardly bothered to look away from the cobblestones in front of her. She had one arm locked beneath Courtney's shoulders and was half-carrying, half-dragging the teenager along with her. The younger Slayer had yet to say a word since being towed out from the basement. Her eyes were glazed over, and if Faith stopped paying attention for five seconds, she stumbled and almost fell.

"Little britches is in shock." As if to prove her point, at that exact moment Courtney tripped over the toes of her own Converse and tried to take a header. Faith caught her before she could collide with the pavement. "Easy, Court." She passed her crossbow to Giles and lifted the fourteen-year-old into her arms, supporting her beneath the knees and the small of her back. The Slayer grunted lightly with the effort, her burning muscles protesting the extra load.

"I . . . I would never has suspected that Duncan had that in him," mused Giles, more to himself than to her.

"Don't take it too personal. People are all screwed up in the head. How many . . ." Faith wavered. She  _really_  didn't want the answer to this question, but at the same time, she knew that she had to ask. "How many Slayers do you think he fed to Octobitch?"

Startled by the moniker, the Watcher glanced at her. "Octo . . .? "

"Octobitch. You know, cause it had all those tentacle things, and it was a bitch to kill."

Giles cleared his throat. "You have a novel approach to taxonomy."

Faith shrugged. "It's simple, and it makes sense. So . . . how many do you think?"

The former librarian removed his glasses and polished them carefully on the inside of his sleeve, it being the cleanest spot on his clothing at present. "I don't know. I expect we shall have to go to Duncan's apartment and see if he left anything in his papers."

"I can't," grumbled the Slayer. "Unless you want me to torch the whole place. I'm in a torching mood. But I guess if you need backup?"

Giles surveyed her more thoroughly, taking in the pain and exhaustion written upon her face. "No, I have the crossbow. And my sword. I hardly think anyone will cause problems. Besides, you should take Courtney back to the car. Maybe get yourselves cleaned up, talk about things . . . I shall go make inquiries."

For once, the Slayer's heart leapt at the prospect of babysitting. "No problem, G."

They parted, and Faith slowly toiled her way up the mountainside to the church parking lot. Along the way, she stopped at a small corner grocery store, along the lines of a bodega. Leaving Courtney propped up in the doorway, she waltzed her way into the store and raided its shelves. When the shopkeeper protested at her in sharp sounding German, the Slayer drew her dirk and turned to face him straight on.

The streaks of rusty blood and dark green ooze covering her torn clothing was enough to give the man pause. He stuttered something unintelligible, and Faith dismissed him as a threat. She continued her browsing, reaching into the fridge at the back of the store for a bottle of Jaegermeister (it had the highest alcohol percentage that she could find) and grabbing a couple of packs of cigarettes from behind the counter.

Faith lifted two packages of cookies and a handful of Kinder Bueno bars. Upon reflection, she dug in her wallet and pulled out a crumpled American ten dollar bill, which she tossed onto the counter. Since she still had not changed any of her money into euro, it was the best she could do.

As an afterthought, she looked at the merchant. "Phone," she demanded, holding her hand out. When he only looked at her in incomprehension, she rolled her eyes. "Mobile," she repeated, louder this time, miming holding a cell phone to her ear.

Shocked by the scruffy apparition that had invaded his store, the shopkeeper stared at the naked blade in the woman's hand for a long moment before handing over his cell phone.

Mission accomplished, Faith left the shop. She took Courtney by the elbow and continued leading her back to the church. It was like dealing with a sleepwalker. At the top of the hill, she used Giles' keys to unlock the Volkswagen. Dropping her stash into the front seat, the Slayer popped the trunk and pulled out Courtney's suitcase.

"Change," she ordered, not unkindly. "You look disgusting."

Without waiting to see if the girl would obey, she removed her own clothing, stripping down to her underwear in the empty parking lot. Unconcerned about any potential Peeping Toms, Faith neatly folded her green fatigues and gray t-shirt. The Octobitch goo didn't seem corrosive, so she could probably get it out of her clothes. It would be a shame to lose a favorite pair of pants. Unzipping her duffel, the Slayer found clean jeans and a black shirt. They'd do the trick.

Courtney was slower to adapt, tugging at the sleeves of her jacket for almost a minute before actually taking it off. Silent, she lingered over each item of clothing, minimizing her state of undress and vulnerability as much as possible.

Once they were both cleaned up as best they could manage without soap or water of some kind, Faith led the way around the back of the church to its quiet little graveyard. Finding a low, solidly built headstone, she perched on top of it. Courtney took the tombstone opposite, a box of the precious cookies clutched in her hands.

"Bon appetit," said the older woman as she opened the bottle of Jaegermeister and took a long, slow drink. It burned like hell, somehow managing to get her nose as well as the roof of her mouth and her throat. Faith took another pull from the bottle and gave herself over to the fire. When the first quarter of the liquor was downed, she set the Jaegermeister down and lit up a cigarette. She chain-smoked while Courtney unconsciously devoured half the package of cookies.

As a general rule, the Slayer never left cigarette butts in a cemetery. She found it a little disrespectful. But this whole damn village was so awful that she didn't much care if the entire graveyard was littered with dogends.

"Can I have one of those?" Courtney broke her silence at last.

"No." Faith tossed another half-smoked cigarette to the ground. She was on number four now, and the tension flooding through her body was well on its way to being replaced by an ethanol and nicotine buzz. "I got you the cookies. These are mine."

Latching onto the conversation like it was her last hope of normalcy, Courtney persisted, "Why not? Why can't I have one?"

The woman exhaled a long stream of smoke. "Because you're fourteen."

"How old were you when you smoked for the first time?"

She had to give her that one. Faith flicked ash off the end of her cigarette. "Younger than fourteen," she admitted.

"So stop being a hypocrite. Let me try one." The girl attempted to grab the pack of cigarettes, but Faith moved it easily out of her reach.

"No. You're a kid, Courtney. You need vegetables and crap like that. Not an addiction."

"And you do?" she fired back.

In no mood to have this particular talk, Faith pulled out the merchant's stolen cell phone. She tossed it a few feet across the graveyard, and the younger Slayer caught it on instinct. "Call your parents."

"What?"

"Now. They at least deserve to know where you are."

Courtney stared down at the phone in her hands, afraid it might bite her. "But I –"

"Do it," advised the woman, blowing a smoke ring. "Or I will."

* * *

It was a relief when Giles finally came rounding the stone wall of the mini-cathedral. Faith's spirits rose at the familiar silhouette and then plummeted back to earth when she realized he was not alone. An envoy of five villagers trooped at his heels: two middle-aged men, another two middle-aged women, and one of the elderly grandmothers who had been so prevalent at the market earlier.

"Courtney." It served as both notice and warning to the teenager, who was fifteen yards deeper into the cemetery, still talking to her parents at sixty miles an hour.

Sheepish, the girl hung up the phone and came to stand at Faith's side. It was amazing how your first big fight could change things, reflected the older Slayer, one hand resting comfortably on the hilt of her dirk. Just in case. It looked like Giles was leading these people, but he might also be their prisoner.

"What's the word, G-man?" she called out as the Watcher stepped through the church yard gate. "Who're your friends?"

"Leaders of the community." Sarcasm dripped from his every word. "They have a request to make of us."

"Oh, yeah? What's German for 'go to Hell'?"

Some of the welcoming committee blanched. Good. So a few of them did speak English, then. Faith threw the idea of caution and go-betweens to the wind and addressed the wincers. "Did you know?" she demanded, in a voice that was biting and devoid of feeling. "Did you know what he was doing to those girls?"

Giles intervened. He knew that no matter what story the townsfolk told her, it would only serve to further piss the Slayer off. And she was already quite close to the edge. Best if she heard the news from him, then. "I found Duncan's diary and his notes."

"Yeah?"

"Thankfully, his plot has only been in effect for the last twelve months. However, in that time, he managed to lure about seventeen Slayers here. He recorded their names and where they came from. I have hope that we can identify them and will be able to give their families some peace. At the very least, we will be able to tell them what happened to their daughters."

Overlooking the growls that emanated from both Slayers, he continued, "I also discovered that this monster, the, er, Octobitch as you so memorably described it, had a remarkable effect on the vampire population of the village."

"What do you mean?" asked Faith with a sinking feeling.

"The monster's presence drove vampires away from Hanselstadt. According to Duncan's notes, they were somehow able to sense it – perhaps psychically. Whenever the beast had not been fed for a while, the vampires would begin moving closer to the village. And now, with the monster destroyed, the people fear that they will be attacked by a horde of vampires."

"I'm not doing it."

"Faith. I haven't asked you to do anything yet."

"I know what you're about to say, and the answer is no."

"I find this as distasteful as you do –"

"Giles! They knew about Octobitch. They knew what it was doing. They let girls die – they let  _Slayers_  die! And now they just expect it to be all hunky dory and for us to protect them? After what they did? No. Not a snowball's chance in Hell."

"Not all of them knew, Faith. In fact, only those closest with Duncan were told."

Faith threw her latest cigarette to the earth and stomped it out beneath her moto boot. "And you believe them?"

"I do," sighed the older man. "The majority of these people are innocent. And we have a duty to defend them."

"Like hell we do!"

For the first time, Courtney interjected. "I don't like it either, Faith. They . . . they let girls like us die. But if vampires are coming . . . we're Vampire Slayers, aren't we? That means that we have a job to do."

Glaring ferociously at everyone, the older Slayer shook her head in defeat. "Fine. But when this is over, I'm getting drunk for a week straight."

Grateful to have avoided another potential meltdown, Giles smiled. "When this is over, I'll join you."

* * *

**May 22** **nd** **, 2006 Hanselstadt, Germany, 9:30 p.m.**

"How are we going to teach all these people to fight?" whispered Courtney, pausing partway through sharpening her twentieth stake.

Once Faith had agreed to help, Giles had organized the townspeople in a surprisingly brief period of time. Kinda impressed a girl. The Watcher set up camp inside the old church, and the village spokespeople gathered all of the townspeople together to hear what he had to say. Faith skipped this part. She had a pretty good idea of his main message: "If you want to live, you'll have to fight."

Not to mention, someone had to start gathering wood. If the entire village was planning on arming themselves to fight off whatever vampires came their way, they were going to need a lot of stakes. And maybe some flamethrowers. Unfortunately, and to Faith's great dismay, the likelihood of getting a flamethrower in a village this small was next to none. This did not prevent her from finding a few of the engineering types and setting them to work on improvising. With all the panic going around, this place needed as much vamp-targeted firepower as it could get.

After the big camp meeting, people were divided into groups. Some were sent back down into the village proper to find whatever tools – shovels, hoes, rakes – they had in their garden sheds. Others joined Faith and Courtney in carving stakes out of any piece of wood at hand. Giles gave quite a vigorous and impromptu lesson about human anatomy – where exactly the heart was located and the best angles for piercing through muscle and pericardium to reach it.

"Honestly?" Faith answered the question after a long moment's thought. "I dunno."

"You think we'll win?"

The Slayer glanced around the church, now filled with people praying loudly, vocally to their God while they prepared to fight the fanged demons of their nightmares. "I think they'll do better than you expect. Desperation's a powerful thing."

"Do you forgive them?"

"No."

"But you're helping them."

"it's like what you said earlier, Court. We're Vampire Slayers. I fight vampires. That doesn't mean I have to like who's fighting alongside me."

"Should we trust them?"

"Not particularly. But they need our help right now, so I reckon we're safe enough."

"Hey Faith?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think those vampires could hurry up and get here? 'Cuz I'm kind of ready to go home."

"Me, too, kid. Me, too."

* * *

In the end, Faith decided, they really shouldn't have worried. When the vampires did show up at the gates of the city, they were met by a crowd of villagers two hundred strong, brandishing their torches, shovels, hoes, and pitchforks. It was a long, hard fight, but ultimately the seventy-odd vampires were all dusted or incinerated. And luckily, although many of the townspeople were injured in the melee – some of them severely – no more humans died.

Dawn came at last, illuminating the smoldering piles of vampire ash and the scorched and cut faces of the villagers. Somewhere in the night, Courtney and Faith had managed to bury their hatchets with a few people. The mayor of Hanselstadt, a heavy-set man in his early fifties, had tackled a vampire from behind when it tried to sneak up on Faith. Made it kinda hard to hate him after that.

As she clambered into Giles' rental car at long last, the Slayer admitted that while she would never like these people, and she did not think that she could ever forgive these people, they had fought bravely for their village. And frankly, she was too damn tired to care about anything another than washing her clothing and climbing into bed. She was getting too old for battles that lasted all day and all night.

Buckling her seatbelt, she returned to her bottle of Jaegermeister. The rental company had rules about smoking, but at least she could get drunk and try to forget about these utterly miserable last twenty-four hours. Maybe, if she was lucky, Giles would not notice until she had finished the whole thing. Faith did not feel like sharing. Not today.

* * *

**May 26, 2006, London, England**

Faith had never been one to use homework as an escape, but when Giles had told her that Courtney and her parents were coming by the apartment to "talk over some things," she had instantly remembered an incredibly important college algebra test that she had to study for. And so the Slayer sequestered herself in Giles' spare bedroom and opened her textbook. She actually did have a test on the horizon, but perhaps there was less impending doom than she had implied.

Still, it was nice to have a reprieve from the past three days of calling the families of the girls on Duncan Fillworthe's list. In the last seventy-two hours, Faith had learned the proper way to express one's regrets and condolences, and she wished more than anything that she could have skipped that particular tutorial.

Frowning, the Slayer stared intently at the page of linear equations on the desk in front of her. As she checked and double-checked her answers, she chewed on the inside of her lip. Her stomach rumbled, but she ignored it. No way was she risking a confrontation with Courtney's parents. Food could wait.

Satisfied with her responses, Faith fired up her laptop and opened the course page to type in her homework and download the practice exam. Out of habit, she checked her email. There was a brief missive from Becka, asking if it was okay for her to throw an end-of-the-semester party at Faith's place during finals week. Apparently Lily had some big audition coming up and had put the kibosh on any big celebrations. Faith typed in a quick affirmative and continued scrolling.

Just as her practice exam finished downloading, her computer beeped as another email came in.

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
D** **ate: March 26, at 9:15 a.m. CST  
** **Subject: People are Crazy**

Hey,

How did your thing turn out? Ours was batsh-t insane. Sam deserves an Oscar for his turn as damsel in distress.

Dean

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker 5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: March 26, at 9:16 a.m. CST  
** **Subject: RE: People are Crazy**

Hey,

It's a long story. Short version, it started out ehhh, went full Dark Side, and ended up okay-ish. What happened with Sam?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: March 26, at 9:17 a.m. CST  
** **Subject: RE: RE: People are Crazy**

You ever see Deliverance?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: March 26, at 9:19 a.m. CST  
** **Subject: Deliverance?**

Maybe? It's been a while. Remind me how it goes?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
** **To: FyreCracker5x5  
** **Date: March 26, at 9:21 a.m. CST  
** **Subject: Idea**

Hey, Sam's got an idea. Do you have a webcam?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: March 26, at 9:22 a.m. CST  
** **Subject: RE: Idea**

No, but I bet Giles does. I'll be right back.

. . . .

The Slayer snuck into the hallway. If she was careful, no one would notice her. Treading silently, she tiptoed into Giles' office and found his laptop on his mahogany desk, complete with webcam. Faith unplugged the webcam and unclipped it from the top of the laptop screen before sneaking back into her room. She set the camera up on her own computer.

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
** **To: ZepHead_79  
** **Date: March 26, at 9:26 a.m. CST  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Idea**

Webcam is go. Now what?

. . . .

A moment later, a window popped-up on her laptop, asking if she wanted to video conference with ZepHead_79. Faith clicked 'accept,' and the image of a grungy motel room gradually swam into view. She maximized the window so that it occupied the entire screen. In the middle of the picture, Dean smirked at her.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"I guess Sam has his uses after all."

A blurry figure moved at the back of the field of view. "Dean. I can hear you. And, just sayin', I'm not the one who got beat up by a thirteen-year-old girl this week."

"You got beat up by a thirteen-year-old?" the woman crowed in delight.

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "That's outta context." He looked over his shoulder to his brother in the background and made an obscene gesture. Turning back to the screen a little too quickly, the hunter winced.

Even with the bad connection, Faith caught that. "How bad did the thirteen-year-old beat you up?" she asked, more seriously.

"What? I'm fine."

"He's not fine," yelled Sam from somewhere offscreen. "Show her your shoulder."

The Slayer raised an eyebrow. "What happened to your shoulder?"

"It's nothing. Sam just thinks it's funny to play Mother Hen."

"Dean . . ."

"And you're not any better." Rolling his eyes, Dean slowly tugged his undershirt over his head to reveal a thick white bandage wrapped around his right shoulder. "See? All fine. And I'm not taking this off, so don't bother asking."

"What got you?"

He paused, grimacing. "Short version, hot poker. Long version, crazy hillbilly trying his hand at interrogation with a hot poker. I think it's gonna scar. And it's gonna be ugly."

"Worried it'll affect your ability to pick up girls?"

"Hadn't gotten there yet. Mostly hoping it won't heal weird and mess up my ability to move my arm."

In commiseration, Faith decided to share her own newest battle wound. "Good point." Standing, she removed her own t-shirt and turned to the side, pulling up at the edges of her bra to better display the series of inflamed red marks arranged in circles. She showed him identical marks on her back.

Dean leaned closer in to his laptop, frowning. "What the hell happened to you?"

The Slayer retrieved her shirt and covered back up. "I went a few rounds with Audrey Two."

"A plant – really?"

"Close. An ancient demon that was like a cross between an octopus and a plant. And that thing from Fellowship of the Ring."

It was easy for him to follow her line of reasoning. "The Watcher in the Water? How did you find one of those in – where were you again?"

"Middle of nowhere, Germany."

"Right. So . . . what happened?"

"I share with the class, you gotta tell me how you got your ass handed to you by a teenage girl."

The hunter turned away from the screen. "Hey, Sam! Faith was in Little Shop of Horrors – you know, that musical you did in high school, when you played with the plant puppets."

"What?" Sam dragged a chair over to join his brother in front of the computer. "I thought Faith had a case in Germany?"

"Same thing."

Faith snorted. "Okay. Here's the thing. I landed in Berlin about five days ago . . . "


	39. Dance, Monkey, Dance! pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  We're picking up immediately after the final scene in SPN 2x04, "Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things."

 

* * *

**August 29th, 2006, Greenville, Illinois, 3:00 p.m.**

_"Sam... You and Dad... you're the most important people in my life. And now... I never should've come back, Sam. It wasn't natural. And now look what's come of it. I was dead. And I should have stayed dead. You wanted to know how I was feeling. Well, that's it. So tell me. What could you possibly say to make that all right?"_

. . . .

The two brothers stared at one another without speaking, Dean's overwrought confession hanging heavy in the air between them. Hazel eyes dark with concern, Sam opened his mouth to break the silence, to say the right thing that would absolve his brother of any guilt. He intended to be eloquent and put that expensive college education to good use. He wanted to remind Dean of his value, to tell his brother that he could not imagine a world without Dean in it, and that, had he thought of selling his soul to save Dean first, he would have made the same deal that their father had.

All he managed to get out was a tortured, "Dean –" when his cell phone began blasting its obnoxious preset ringtone. Cursing his luck, Sam flipped the phone open and took a couple of steps away from the Impala. "Hello?"

"Hello? Is this – is this Sam Winchester?" asked an anxious, breathy female voice.

"Yeah. Who's calling?"

"Oh, uh, sorry. I'm, um, I'm Aricka Spencer. I went to high school with Rebecca Warren. She, uh, she gave me your number."

"I don't know a Rebecca – wait, Becky Warren?"

"Uh, yes. I think so. Her brother calls her Becky. We always called her Rebecca growing up." The woman paused and exhaled into the phone. "Er, sorry. I'm a little nervous."

Sam turned away from his brother, suppressing the urge to smile at the girl on the other end of the line. It wouldn't do for Dean to see him so easily amused after the conversation they'd just been having. Not that he was that amused. It was just that part of his soul leapt at the chance to back away from the unrelenting tension. Dean was right. There wasn't anything Sam could say that would fix this. So he'd focus on something he could fix, instead. "Why did Becky give you my number?"

"It's a long story, but . . . I guess the short version is that there's been some weird stuff going on in my research lab – I work at Princeton University, taking a gap year before graduate school – and for the last month or so, things have been really weird . . . Impossibly weird. X-files weird. I mentioned some of it to Rebecca when we were catching up the other day – and she said she knew two guys who handled this kind of thing. This was a week ago, I think? I don't know. I felt kind of silly the next morning, thought better of it. Decided not to call you guys after all."

"What changed your mind?" Sam pressed gently.

Aricka gulped, and the smile slowly slid off of Sam's face. He knew that sound. It always prefaced bad things to follow. "My boss died – or got killed – or something – last night. She was working on an experiment, and all the doors were locked. I was the first one in this morning 'cause I needed to run a DNA extraction – well, I guess that doesn't matter now – and I, I found her." The girl stopped and swallowed thickly. "The way her neck was twisted . . . I knew I needed to take Rebecca's advice and call you."

"Sounds like you did the right thing. Princeton's in New Jersey, isn't it?"

"Yes. Are you anywhere close to here? Rebecca said that you traveled a lot."

"We'll be there in less than twenty-four hours," he promised, ignoring Dean's irritable scoff behind him. "Aricka, are you somewhere you feel safe?"

"I think so. I'm not going anywhere near the lab until you guys get here. And . . . and as soon as I get off the phone, I'm going to go stay with a friend. Just in case."

"Good idea. We'll call you when we get into town. Is this a good number to reach you?"

The quaver in her voice noticeably reduced, the girl affirmed, "Yeah."

"Okay. We'll see you tomorrow."

"Thank you."

"One more thing – what was your boss's name?"

Aricka sniffed and said quietly, "Mariana Popescu. She was a research scientist here at Princeton."

Ending the call, Sam looked up to see his older brother glaring at him. "What?"

"Dude. I am not driving fifteen hours straight to New Jersey right now."

His earlier concern vanishing like mist burning off on the highway, the younger Winchester struggled to keep his temper in check. Someone needed them, and he didn't understand why his brother was dragging his feet like this. "What the hell, Dean? Why not?"

Mulish and defensive, Dean persisted, "Just 'cause some old friend of a friend of yours –"

"You didn't even hear what she had to say – "

"Oh, great, it's a girl. We all know how well that turns out."

"Dean!"

It was easy to pretend to ignore Sam's outrage. Hell, he'd been doing that all his life. Shrugging unconcernedly, Dean stepped away from his brother and opened the driver's door to the Impala. "Whatever," he grumbled under his breath. "Fine. We're going. But we're stopping in Ohio on the way. And that's not negotiable."

Without waiting for his little brother to get in the car, the hunter started the engine with more gusto than usual. He grabbed his own phone from where it languished in a cupholder and punched in a series of numbers, his aggravation coming out in the staccato tapping of his thumbs against the keys. The call rang out five times, which did nothing to soothe his mood, until finally someone picked up.

"Well, well. Long time, no phone," purred a low alto.

Pointedly looking away as Sam climbed into the Impala, Dean snapped out his response. "Suspicious death. New Jersey. Pack a bag."

"And here I was thinking you'd lost my number."

"I'll be there in eight hours."

"I might have plans, you know," replied the woman peevishly. "Maybe I'm too busy to play cowboys and Indians."

Tires screeching against the pavement as he peeled out onto the two-lane highway, the man barked out a mirthless laugh. Sam wisely kept his mouth shut. "Like hell you are."

When she spoke again, it was through gritted teeth. "Charming as ever, Dean. Why should I agree to a midnight road trip when you're obviously campaigning for Pissy Guy of the Year? If I wanted to party with the passive-aggressive, I've got plenty of better-looking options."

Dean unbent a fraction, his voice colored with frustration. It wasn't actually her fault that he was pissed off. "Faith . . "

"Okay. Maybe not any better-looking options this side of the Atlantic. Jeez, cowboy – I don't hear from you for months, and then you're all pushy and demandy, and it takes me a minute to suss things out. By the way, it wouldn't kill you to say please."

"You in or not?"

He could hear a refrigerator door thudding into place and the clink of glass on a counter. "Seriously, Dean? What crawled up your butt and died?"

_"Faith."_

"Yeah, I'm in. Why not? I'm bored out of my skull here, anyway."

"You still live at the same place?"

"Haven't moved. I would ask you if you wanted to crash here overnight, but something tells me the answer to that would be a giant 'No'."

"See you in eight hours."

"Aye-aye, chief," said Faith resignedly. "You owe me one for this, you know."

"I know." Dean hung up the phone and dropped it onto the seat between his legs, his dark mood becoming even darker. Lately, it seemed like all he did was owe people.

* * *

**August 29th, 2006, Cleveland, Ohio, 11:00 p.m.**

The faintest traces of moonlight lingered in the summer air as the black Chevy Impala drew up to a bland two-story brick apartment building where a woman in her mid-twenties waited. Before the old engine finished shuddering to a halt, an unbelievably tall man jumped out of the front seat and opened the rear passenger door.

Faith shifted her red duffel from the concrete up to the crook of her left arm. Knocking on the trunk of the car, she waited for the lid to spring open. "Hey, Sam. You didn't need to get the door for me."

His mouth twisting into something between a smile and a grimace, the hunter tossed his laptop bag into the backseat ahead of him and then ran a hand through his floppy mane. "Not getting it for you. You're riding shotgun."

"Huh." She slung the duffel into the trunk and closed it. "Figured that'd be your spot, daddy long-legs." Faith made a show of looking the man up and down to emphasize just how long those legs of his were.

"Not this time. It's all yours." Sam folded himself into the backseat and reached for the door handle. "Good luck," he mouthed as the woman shoved the door closed with her hip.

Curious, the Slayer deposited her backpack on the front seat floorboard and clambered in after it. She glanced across the bench seat to where Dean sat, his hands clenched tight around the top of the steering wheel, his elbows nearly locked straight. His hair was a little longer than it had been when she last saw him, and he radiated tension. Buckling her seatbelt, Faith pulled the shotgun door closed. "Been a while," she said to break the silence.

Dean didn't say anything. Instead, his eyes held hers for a brief second, the intensity in them enough to make her mouth go dry. When his attention moved back to the road and he shifted the car into drive, Faith looked over her shoulder and met Sam's gaze. The twenty-three-year-old shrugged and put his iPod headphones in. Tilting his head back against the upholstery, he pretended to fall asleep.

Great. Signing up for an awkward family vacation had not been on her list of things to do when she'd woken up that morning. Huffing in exasperation, Faith turned back to the front. One hand pressed against the middle of the bench seat to steady herself, the Slayer dug in the top pocket of her backpack for her phone. Giles was probably about to get up to his ears in something again, and she needed to be ready to go when he did. Recently, they'd been flying around the country to help out Slayers in crisis, and she had not had the time to get a decent haircut, much less think.

A callused hand gripped hers. Somewhat surprised, Faith abandoned her search and sent Dean a quizzical glance. His face remained carefully blank, and his eyes were glued to the darkened highway ahead of them, but his right palm covered the back of her left hand and wrist and squeezed tightly. It wasn't hand-holding exactly – he made no attempt to interweave their fingers or anything – but there was something almost desperate in the way his hand clung to hers.

"You okay?" she hissed out of the corner of her mouth. "Only you're acting a little off."

When he spoke, his voice was also quiet. "What's dead should stay dead." The pressure on the bones in Faith's hand increased to an almost painful level. She could feel the silver ring that Dean always wore on his right ring finger digging into her skin.

Still keeping it down to a whisper, Faith observed, "You are making absolutely zero sense here, Dean. Earth to Winchester. Are you okay?"

"No." The single syllable hung, fluttering, in the air for a single instant before the noise of the AC vents blew it away.

Flipping her wrist over easily, the Slayer pressed their palms together, interlocking her fingers with his. Now, this was hand-holding. She returned his pressure with equal force and chose to disregard his ring. If the feeling bothered him, he could move. Faith Lehane didn't do things halfway. "Who should have stayed dead?" she asked, following up on his earlier comment. It was the first real thing he'd said since she got in the car.

For a moment, she wondered if he would even bother answering the question. But then Dean inhaled deep and released the air through his teeth. Finally, he choked out a single word: "Me."

 


	40. Dance, Monkey, Dance! pt 2

* * *

It was pushing three o'clock in the morning when Dean finally steered the car off the highway and into an empty rest stop parking lot. Sam groaned in protest as his brother braked. "Where are we?" he slurred, uncurling from a tangled mess of limbs and hair in the back seat.

"Go back to sleep," the older man ordered, not unkindly. "I'm not paying for three hours in a roach motel."

"Okay." Mumbling a half-hearted response, Sam slumped back against the upholstery and closed his eyes again.

The hunter glanced at his navigator, who was busy unbuckling her seatbelt and digging a sweatshirt out of her backpack to use as a pillow. He was exhausted by their long conversation. It had taken a couple of hundred miles and more tangents and detours than he would have ever expected, but he and Faith were once again on the same page, and that was a relief. Perhaps he ought to be disturbed by her growing role as the repository of his secrets, but Dean could not muster the energy. This day had lasted far too long.

Bending down, Faith unlaced her boots and slipped her feet free of their heavy confines. "We need to do anything . . ." she mimed pouring something out of a salt shaker, "before we turn in?"

"Nah." Dean reached behind him and manually locked the two doors on the driver's side of the car. Next, he leaned across the Impala to lock the door by Sam's head and the one to Faith's right. Returning to his seat, the man retrieved his favorite M1911 .45 from the inside of his jacket. He laid the handgun on his right thigh and covered its grip loosely with one hand.

A tired smile forming, the Slayer yanked up the leg of her jeans and unfastened her Bowie knife from where it was strapped to her calf. She clasped the hilt tightly. After taking a moment to shove her sweatshirt up against the window glass, Faith wriggled around until she found a comfortable position. "You want me to take first watch?" she offered.

"Don't bother. We'll be fine." The hunter tilted his skull back against the seat and blinked heavily. In half an instant, he was passed out.

Faith twisted so that she could see him better. Despite Dean's protestations, she would stay awake for a while longer. She wasn't quite that sleepy – after his phone call, she'd taken advantage of a late afternoon nap. And besides, their little chit-chat had given her a great deal to mull over. Propping her head against the sweatshirt on the window, she was able to survey both sleeping men at once. The Slayer listened to the quiet sounds of breathing in the hot car and thought.

* * *

She woke to the sensation of cotton scratching beneath her cheek, the fabric covering something warm, rock solid, and bony. The other side of her face and her arms were freezing as the air conditioner huffed and puffed at full blast. Someone's hand teased the ends of her ponytail, which, now that she remembered it, was making her entire scalp ache. Hesitantly, Faith opened her eyes to take in a blue jean-clad knee extending out towards the black dashboard and the steering wheel of the Impala.

Looking up, the Slayer caught sight of a scruffy chin and a pair of amused green eyes. "You ready to go, drooling beauty?"

"What?" Faith raised her head half an inch off of Dean's leg. Directly in front of her nose, the faded material of his jeans was stained dark and wet right where the corner of her mouth had been. Oh, well. She'd woken up in less flattering positions with worse company. The Slayer grabbed the back of the bench seat and hauled herself upright, surreptitiously wiping her face clear of any dried drool.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Half past seven. We hurry, we can get there by noon."

"Right." She picked up her knife from where it had fallen to the floorboard. "Where's Sam?"

The man jerked his head in the direction of the rest stop bathrooms. "He's getting cleaned up. I was waiting for somebody to move so I could take my leg back . . ."

"Sorry about that." Faith opened her door gingerly and stuck her head out into the warm summer air. A slight breeze wafted temptingly past her. Tugging her boots back on, she climbed out of the car.

Dean unlocked his door and stepped around to the trunk. He lifted their duffels out, olive green and red, and dropped them onto the asphalt. "Thing I can't quite figure out is how you ended up going all cuddle-monster on me . . ."

"You're not as funny as you think you are," the Slayer grumbled. "I fell asleep – must have fallen over or something."

"Uh uh." Smirking, the hunter shut the trunk with a thud. He picked up both bags with one hand and draped his other arm across her shoulders. They began walking across the parking lot towards the restrooms. "Sure you did. But here's what I think happened – you wanted a cuddle."

"Shut up," she said good-naturedly.

"Or what – you'll drool on me?"

That did it. Faith easily dodged aside out of the man's embrace and took back her duffel. Returning his smirk with a grimace of her own, she flipped him off with both middle fingers as she pushed open the door of the ladies' with her shoulder.

"You really mean that?" he called after her.

Faith groaned. This was going to be a long road trip.

Luckily, the women's restroom was mostly deserted at seven a.m., so she stripped down in front of the sinks and used wet paper towels to wash her face and dab at her armpits. Faith had packed both the sexy librarian stuff – black business trousers and wrinkle-free blouses – as well as her normal clothes – jeans and a motley assortment of tank tops and t-shirts. Unzipping the suitcase, she threw on a pair of clean underwear and a navy tank top before tugging yesterday's jeans back on. Then she brushed her teeth extra-thoroughly and ran a brush through her wavy brown hair, which was kinked at the back from the ponytail elastic.

Finished, Faith stared at her reflection in the pitted mirror glass. She took in the dark shadows under her eyes and the faint lines at the edges of her mouth. The girl in the mirror gazed back at her, world-wise and jaded. Even so, Faith fancied that she looked better than she had in jail. A little less 'rode hard and put away wet,' a little less 'two steps away from a serial killing spree,' a little more 'badly timed jaunt across the country.'

The Slayer considered her cell phone on the bathroom counter. Before she had fallen asleep last night, she had thought through the litany of sheer horror that Dean had shared with her. Faith knew how to handle the terrible accident, coma, and visions part of the story. After all, she had been interred in Sunnydale General for eight months, trapped in bad dreams and living death, and then there was the Orpheus walk with Angelus . . .

But she had no idea what to say about his father's sacrifice. No one had ever really done anything like that on her behalf. Faith was under no illusions about her own value. There wasn't a person in the world who would sell their soul to the devil in trade for her life. Which was fine. Honestly. When it was her time to end the dance, she would bow out. No regrets.

Unfortunately, none of her fatalism would help Dean in the slightest. So Faith eyed her phone, mentally running through a list of all the Slayers, Scoobies, demon hunters, and vampires that she knew. Maybe talking to somebody who'd been through something similar would help. One by one, she eliminated her potential candidates, until only one name remained. Gritting her teeth, the Slayer sent Giles a text inquiry.

By the time she returned to the Impala, Sam and Dean had already taken their places in the front of the car. Faith didn't mind. She could use another few hours' sleep. Tossing her duffel into the back seat, the Slayer crawled in after. "I could eat a horse," she announced.

"We'll stop at the next Golden Arches we see," promised Sam as he spread a map open on his lap. "Right, Dean?"

"Yeah, I'd murder someone for a cup of coffee right about now. No questions asked. Egg McMuffin sound good to you, Faith?"

Their eyes met in the rearview mirror, and Faith was relieved to note that the intensity of the night before had faded somewhat. Still, she found herself choosing her words with a little extra care. "Awesome." She turned her attention to his brother. "You sleep okay, Sam?"

The younger man made a show of rolling his neck around and cracking it from side to side. "Not bad. But probably not as good as you – you looked pretty comfortable this morning."

It took far stronger teasing than that to make Faith blush. She chuckled instead. "It wasn't too bad. You should try it yourself sometime."

Sam returned her laugh. "No thanks. I'm good."

"If you two are ready to get to work . . .?" The amused glimmer of green eyes in the rearview mirror betrayed Dean's faux-irritated tone.

Faith stretched her legs out until they barked against the back of the front seat. She folded her arms across her stomach and yawned. "Okay, okay. Tell me about this case? All you said yesterday was suspicious death. What kind of ghostie is it this time?"

Opening his laptop, Sam started talking at ninety miles an hour. "We don't know that it is a ghost yet – "

"Or even if it's our kind of thing at all," Dean interjected as he passed a green Honda Odyssey.

"Right. So, to catch you up, Faith, I got a call yesterday from a friend of a friend. She works in a lab in New Jersey, and I guess there's been suspicious stuff happening there."

"What kind of suspicious?" asked Faith, ignoring the rumbling of her stomach.

"She didn't say, but she compared it to the X-files."

"Well, that rules out a lot," grumbled Dean under his breath.

This was fair enough, so Sam took it in stride. "Anyway, the stuff has been escalating lately, and her boss was found dead a couple of days ago. Locked doors, broken neck, the whole shebang." He typed in his laptop password and pulled up a word processing program.

Yawning for a second time, the Slayer surmised, "So we don't really know very much, then."

"Nope."

"I'm working on it," Sam defended himself hastily. "We just haven't stopped anywhere with Wifi since Aricka called me." He shot his brother a pointed look.

"Hey, don't look at me. You're the one who promised the girl we'd be there in twenty-four hours."

"Are trips with you two always this much fun?"

"Only on Thursdays."

"Dean, it's a Wednesday," Sam reminded him.

Rolling his eyes, Dean guided the car off the highway and turned into the parking lot of a Gas'n'Sip. "Looks like McDonald's is gonna have to wait for another day. Twinkies and coffee it is."

Faith's phone buzzed as a text message came in. She checked it quickly, staying in the back seat while Sam headed into the gas station and Dean began filling up the car. The expected response from Giles contained a series of 15 digits. Faith recognized them vaguely as the US exit code, the UK international code, and then the number itself.

Someone knocked on the window next to her head, and she looked up from the phone, startled and a little bit guilty. It was Dean. He opened the car door and said, "You gonna just sit there?"

"Sorry – got lost in thought." Clambering out of the Impala, the Slayer shoved her traitorous phone deep into the pockets of her jeans. She could almost swear she could feel it burning against her leg. "You want anything in particular?"

"Nah. Sam's got me covered. You grab whatever you want, then let's get back on the road."

Hesitating, Faith debated whether or not she should say anything just yet. Dean noticed her indecision.

"What?"

"Dean . . . about last night . . ."

The hunter walked back around the trunk of the car to the pump. "I'd better check the meter."

"Dean – "

"If you're hungry, you'd better hurry – soon as Sam gets back, we're taking off."

The Slayer had no good response for this. She watched his face for a moment, examining the lines there, harsher and sharper than her own, before she spun on her boot heel and hurried inside to grab some breakfast.

* * *

**August 30, 2006, Princeton, New Jersey, 1:30 p.m.**

"Hello?" A young woman opened the faded blue apartment door, her face drawn with concern. She surveyed her new visitors, the two tall men in well-tailored suits and the woman lurking behind them.

"Aricka Spencer?" The taller of the two men stepped forward, smiling in a friendly manner. "I'm Sam Winchester. We spoke on the phone yesterday."

"Oh, yes." Aricka ran a hand across her forehead and pulled the door open wider. "Come on in. Can I get you some water or something?" she asked distractedly as the three visitors walked into her studio apartment. "Oh, here –" Releasing the door to close by itself, she hurried across the living area and cleared a laundry basket full of clothes and a heavy backpack from off the otherwise immaculate white couch. "I'm sorry – I've been so out of it. Ever since yesterday. I almost forgot you were coming." Aricka gestured for them to sit.

The two hunters took the seats she indicated, but Faith chose to remain standing. She glanced around the apartment, taking in the bright pieces of flowery art and the open box of cereal standing on the counter of the kitchenette.

"Nice place," she commented.

Aricka observed the Slayer with a faint sense of unease. She had thought there would only be two of these amateur Ghostbusters. Turning her attention back to the two men on the couch, she said, "So, Sam, right? How exactly does this work?" Her hands twisted themselves together in her lap.

"I'm Dean. That's Sam. And she's Faith. You tell us everything you know, we'll make some other inquiries, and we'll figure out if your boss died of supernatural causes. If she did, we'll take care of whatever it was that killed her." The hunter smiled charmingly, his green eyes wide and innocent. He ignored any potential outrage coming from Sam's direction. They could sort out power struggles later. But right now, he was the older, rightfully more pissed-off brother, and today, he was running this show. "So . . . when did you start noticing that things were off?"

The story came out haltingly, with many hesitations and delays. It was obvious that Aricka was uncomfortable with the unorthodox nature of her tale. After graduating cum laude from Washington University in St. Louis in May, she had taken a two-year long research assistantship position in Dr. Popescu's lab.

"I want to go to medical school," she explained, and for the first time, her diffidence was replaced with a quiet pride. "Or maybe get a PhD. I haven't decided. That was the point of coming to work here." Aricka tucked one of her many slender braids behind her ear. "Anyway, I work most of the time in Dr. Popescu's lab - she studies cancer cells - and spend a little bit of time in Dr. Stephens' lab - they look at murine models of uterine cancer there."

"Murine?" asked Faith, having taken the spot on the white couch to Sam's left.

"Mouse," replied Sam automatically.

Aricka smiled slightly at him. "Yes. Mouse. I'm sorry, I forgot - where did you want me to go from there?"

"When did things start going weird?" Sam continued asking the questions.

The woman shrugged. "About two months in, I suppose. I hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. But then . . . stuff happened. Stuff that made no sense. The door to the walk-in minus eighty degree freezer got stuck. Several times."

"Got stuck from the outside?"

"No. There's a handle on the inside. It lets you out if the door accidentally closes while you're putting away or retrieving specimens. Usually the door stays propped open by itself, but starting about six weeks ago, it began closing all the time. And sometimes you would have to jiggle the handle five or six or even seven times before it would open up again."

"Did this happen to you?" Dean interjected before Sam could get the words out.

Aricka looked from one brother to the next, her brow furrowed. "Yes," she said slowly, "but at first I didn't think anything of it. It was happening to almost everybody - me, Dr. Popescu, Liz the Ph.D. student, Marcie, the other R.A. - research assistant."

Dean scribbled each name down as she mentioned them. "Anyone it didn't happen to?"

She frowned in concentration. "I can't remember. Maybe Jeremy - he's also a Ph.D. student. But Jeremy doesn't use the freezer too much - he's a biostats guy."

"Did any other 'weird' things happen?" queried Sam.

"The water baths were too hot." At her audience's confused expressions, Aricka continued, "We use hot water baths to control the temperature of things - bottles full of gel media that need to cool before we pour the plates, stuff like that. There's quite a bit that goes into caring for cell cultures . . . but you probably aren't interested in all that."

"So the baths were too hot," Dean prompted.

"Yeah. By about twenty degrees Celsius. Liz got a pretty bad burn - the bath should have been at sixty . . . It got all the way up to eighty degrees. She had to wear a bandage on her left hand for a couple of weeks."

"When was this?"

"A month ago," she answered Faith. "I remember because Liz and her fiancé were about to take their engagement photos, and Liz was super pissed about the bandage."

"Anyone else get burned?"

Aricka shifted her gaze back to Dean. "We all did. No one as bad as Liz, though. We thought one of the undergraduates was being careless – not refilling the baths properly, turning the heat up on accident, that sort of thing – but no one copped to it. And then we realized the thermometers were still reading forty-five and sixty degrees Celsius, even when the water was drastically hotter than that." She inhaled deeply. "But it wasn't until last week that I started seriously thinking something spooky was going on. Up until then, I figured it was all bad luck."

"What happened a week ago?"

"I plated a lawn of cells. That's when you take a petri dish lined with a solid growth medium and grow a population of cells to cover the entire dish surface. I prepped about eight plates, and when I took them out of the incubator two days later, something was very very wrong. The cells hadn't covered the plate evenly. They grew to spell a word: whore. All eight plates said 'whore,' clear as day. Rebecca happened to call me that evening, out of the blue. I was still shaken up, so I told her about it. That's how I knew to call you, Sam."

"Sounds like you did the right thing," said Sam comfortingly.

He reached out to put a hand on Aricka's shoulder, then appeared to think better of it. Although her voice had trembled slightly at the end of her narrative, the woman's composure was remarkable. Aricka stood and walked into the kitchenette. She ran herself a glass of water from the tap and returned to her chair. "I suppose you want to hear about Dr. Popescu now?"

"Yeah." Dean did not beat around the bush. "That'd be good."

"I went into work yesterday morning, and I found her on the floor in front of the gel dock. Her neck was twisted all wrong, and she was covered in blood. I screamed. And then I called 911."

"Did you take a pulse, touch her, anything like that?"

Swallowing a large sip of water, Aricka shook her head. "No. There was no need to. I could tell that she was dead. Her eyes were open, and . . . "

"Okay." Dean rose to his feet. "We'll go look into this, talk to the police, see what there is to see."

Sam followed his brother's lead and stood. "Is there anything else we can do for you, Aricka? Anything else you'd like to tell us?"

Gazing up at them, she said in an extremely quiet voice, "What if . . . what if the thing that killed Dr. Popescu comes after me?"

"We aren't going to let anything happen to you," Sam replied reassuringly, heedless of the dagger glares Dean was throwing his way. In their business, you didn't make promises like that. You couldn't afford to. "In fact," he continued, "Faith will stay with you today while we investigate. Okay?"

Aricka regarded the other woman skeptically. She looked more like an upscale restaurant hostess than protection. Faith noticed this and snorted. "Don't worry. You'll be safe. I'll just go change into something a little more body-guardy."

* * *

"You good on this?" Dean asked out of the corner of his mouth as they walked outside to the car. He turned his back while Faith shimmied out of her black dress pants and back into her jeans, using the rear door of the Impala to shield herself from any passersby.

"You worried about my comfort now?" the Slayer teased, yanking her teal blouse over her head and replacing it with her tank top from earlier in the morning. She traded her flats for Doc Martens. Her faded jean jacket went on last, to hide her tattoo. Faith wasn't in the mood for prurient curiosity today.

"You got volunteered . . ."

Amused, Faith clapped the hunter on the shoulder. "Dean. We get volunteered for stuff all the time. I'll ask her some questions, establish some comfort there, and keep my eyes and ears open. It'll be fine. Five by five, all the way."

"Do you have an EMF meter?"

"No . . . no, I don't."

"Here." Rummaging in the trunk, Dean pulled out what looked like a much-abused walkman. He pressed it into Faith's hands. "I doubt anything's out to get this girl, but just in case."

The Slayer nodded and added the walkman to the monster-kit in her backpack. She was still tugging the zipper closed when Sam finally finished talking with Aricka and came out to find them.

"Police station, then morgue?" he suggested to his brother, the words some sort of peace offering.

Dean nodded once. "Yeah. We'll keep you updated, Faith."

"Got it." Shouldering her black Jansport, Faith watched as the hunters drove away. She waited until the car turned the corner and vanished out of sight before making her way back into the apartment building. Time to babysit.

 


	41. Dance, Monkey, Dance! pt 3

* * *

Visiting the police was likely to be messy, but John Winchester had taught his sons to not leave any stones unturned. Aricka's report had been suggestive – especially the part about 'whore' being written on cells in a Petri dish. Dean had never heard of anything that used bacteria or people cells as a writing instrument. It couldn't be too much more complicated than writing warnings in blood, he reflected. And monsters did that all the time.

Still, he'd prefer a bit more evidence. The hunter typed out a quick text message:

**To: 213555608**  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 2:15 p.m.  
Message:

Can you ask Erica if she still has those Petri things? Or a picture or something?

. . . .

The response came back scarcely a minute later.

**To: 7855552575**  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 2:16 p.m.  
Message:

On it.

. . . .

Pocketing his phone, Dean followed Sam into the bright police station. Moving with just the proper amount of FBI swagger, the brothers approached the front desk.

"Agents Angus and Young," announced Sam as they flashed their polished counterfeit badges. "Here to consult on the Popescu case."

The officer behind the desk looked at their badges suspiciously. A shorter man in his early fifties, his sandy brown high-and-tight haircut marked him as a former marine. "You'll want to see Detective Pearson. He's lead on the investigation."

Dean nodded. "Thanks. Where can we find him?"

The desk sergeant glanced over his shoulder into the crowded bullpen in search of Detective Pearson. His faded blue eyes swept the room twice before he turned back to the FBI agents and shook his head. "He must have stepped out. His desk's the one in the far corner, with the bonsai tree. You may want to check the morgue – the autopsy results should be completed by now. Take the elevator to the basement, follow the signs to the end of the hallway. If Detective Pearson isn't there, let me know, and I'll give you his cell number."

Taking the officer's advice, the brothers descended into the well-lit basement. A series of signs with careful black lettering led to the morgue. Dean pushed the heavy stainless steel door open with one shoulder and paused. His gaze flicked around the autopsy suite, noting the pathologist in her dark green scrubs and the police detective in his worn suit and half-polished shoes.

Detective Pearson stood off to one side, his lower face hidden from view behind a surgical mask, gloved hands clasped in front of him. The pathologist was similarly masked, gloved, and aproned. She raised her electric saw and set it carefully on the autopsy table. Using something similar in appearance to a giant, silver nutcracker, she finished her task of cracking the ribs of a petite brunette woman. As she lifted the chest plate up and away from the rest of the body, she seemed impervious to the sucking, cracking noise made by the separation of the ribs. She placed the frontal ribcage on the gurney and turned to look at the open door.

"Yes?" she said in a cool voice barely softened by a gentle Midwestern accent. "If you want to come in, close the door and get a mask and gloves."

The pathologist did not wait to see if they obeyed her instructions. Brushing strands of blond bangs away from her forehead with the back of one hand, she sliced through skin and subcutaneous fat neatly with a scalpel to widen the already-present T-incision. She peeled the skin further away from the remaining rib cage with a pair of retractors.

Emboldened by her brusque attitude, the Winchesters stepped into the room, pulling large nitrile gloves and surgical masks from the dispensers on the wall. They crossed the cold concrete of the autopsy suite and introduced themselves to the police detective. Nitrile squeaked on nitrile as the men brandished badges and shook hands.

"I won't bother denying it; this time I'm actually relieved to have the feds involved," commented Detective Pearson in an undertone. His thinning gray hair had been bravely combed over an impressive bald spot. "My files are upstairs, but I can give you the basics of the case."

He glanced away from the gurney, where the pathologist was gently working the heart free from its various vessel attachments. "Famous research scientist, foreign citizen, permanent resident here, rather nasty manner of death – "

The detective blanched as the doctor cupped the dead scientist's heart, dark with clotted blood, in her two hands. She placed it into a stainless steel scale and recorded the weight with a piece of bloodstained chalk on the chalkboard behind the autopsy table. Amused by Detective Pearson's squeamish grimace, she raised her eyebrows at him and continued with her work, removing the lungs one by one. "I've told you before, Charlie. If this makes you uncomfortable, I can always just call you with the results when I finish."

"It's fine, Dr. McNeil. It's fine."

Doctor McNeil shrugged a silent 'if you say so.' She extended her T-incision down to the dead woman's pubic bone and slid her gloved hands into the abdominal cavity. The three men watched in horrified fascination as she separated and weighed each of Dr. Popescu's internal organs, noting the measurements on her chalkboard. Next, the pathologist neatly dissected the organs and examined them carefully with her fingers and scalpel. Finally, after what seemed like an age, she replaced the majority of the organs inside their respective cavities.

Walking slowly backwards away from the table, she tugged off her blood-stained gloves with a loud snap and tossed them into the trashcan. Doctor McNeil slipped a pair of clean gloves back on and turned to the lawmen.

"All right. Preliminary conclusions only, as it'll be a couple of days before any toxicology results come back. Woman in her late thirties to early forties. Cause of death: asphyxiation secondary to a cervical spine fracture at around C3." She gestured to a series of head and neck X-rays pinned to the backlit boards behind her. "Mutilation occurred post-mortem, thank God."

"Mutilation?" echoed Sam.

The pathologist stared at him, her pale blue eyes mildly irritated. She pointed out a series of deep, red-rimmed gashes across the dead scientist's abdomen that slashed from the bottom of her right breast all the way across to the top of her left hip. The hunters' eyes followed the track of Doctor McNeil's purple-gloved finger as she outlined the course of the gashes in the air above the corpse. Taken together, the wounds formed an awfully familiar word: 'whore.'

"Whoever you're looking for, he's one sick puppy," Doctor McNeil commented, opening a large packet of sutures and reaching for her needle driver. She whipped her needle through a thick flap of skin near the top of her abdominal incision and began sewing up the corpse before her. "This woman was pregnant."

"She was?" Detective Pearson was taken aback.

"Not very far along – maybe eight weeks or so." The pathologist paused in her sewing to abandon her needle driver and return to the organ slices still remaining on the autopsy table which she had set aside for further analysis. "Look here."

Her already severe expression drifting into a frown, the doctor lifted a firm, brownish pink organ roughly the size of a grapefruit. "This is her uterus." Earlier, she had incised the uterus in two. Now, she spread it open along the lines of the incision to reveal a darker, red-brown lining on the inside and a small sac filled with yellowish-clear fluid.

Doctor McNeil continued dissecting until she had the small sac free in her hand, which she extended for the law officers to see. It was similar in size and shape to a kidney bean. Within the yellowish fluid floated a tiny pink form. The ten-week-old fetus had already formed limb buds. One of its eyes was open.

Dean felt gross. He had seen more than a lifetime's worth of gore and death in his twenty-seven years, but this was something else. Looking up from the fetus, he met the pathologist's gaze. "This really necessary?" he challenged.

The doctor retracted her hand and returned both the fetus and the uterus to the abdominal cavity. "You wanted to know my findings. Those are my findings." She resumed her suturing, turning her back on the men in a clear gesture of dismissal.

Detective Pearson led the way out of the morgue. "Don't take it personal," he advised as the heavy steel door thudded closed behind them. "Doctor McNeil's one of the best. She's just going through a nasty custody battle at the moment. Makes her a little short-tempered."

He passed the elevator, instead opening the door to the emergency stairwell. "The wife's on me to work on my health," he explained and slowly started climbing the steps. "So, how can I best be of assistance?"

Sam and Dean exchanged glances. "My partner and I would like an update on the case and a look at your files," answered Sam quietly. "The FBI isn't wanting to take over lead on the investigation, just to clear up some things."

"Satisfy the curiosity of the suits in the Hoover building, I guess." The detective's voice tightened with exertion as they reached the top of the second flight of stairs. "I haven't had time to do too much – spoke to the fiancé and a few of the other researchers, took a statement from the girl who found her."

"You get any footage off the security cameras?"

"There weren't any in the lab itself, but I have the ones from the building as a whole. I was going to look through them this afternoon. You're welcome to join in."

In silent agreement, the brothers played a furious round of rock, paper, scissors while the detective was occupied with pushing open the door to the bullpen. Sam played rock, easily beating Dean's scissors. With a slight smirk, the younger hunter said, "Thank you, detective. Agent Young will be delighted to review the tapes with you."

* * *

The afternoon dragged past, even slower than Faith had expected. Aricka was intelligent, articulate, well-educated – and extremely skeptical of her impromptu bodyguard, especially when said bodyguard fired up a heavily abused laptop and began a cursory exploration of SearchtheWeb. The Winchesters would have much better access to records at the police station, but she couldn't just sit here and do nothing.

"So . . . how does one get involved with paranormal investigations?" the research assistant asked awkwardly, looking over Faith's shoulder at the computer screen.

Faith repressed the urge to roll her eyes. Paranormal investigations. G-d, it sounded so full of crap. Not that 'Vampire Slayer' or 'Hunter' were much more respectable titles, but at least they tended to be used with appreciative audiences. True to form, she fudged the truth a little. "Parental figure of mine got killed, and the thing that got her kept coming after me. It was fight or die."

She clicked open Dr. Popescu's page on the Princeton University website and downloaded her C.V. Scanning the page, the Slayer typed notes into a Word document.

"What are you looking for?" wondered Aricka.

"Trying to get a little more information on your boss," said Faith absently. " See if she was mixed up in anything." At the other woman's offended expression, she added, "I'm not saying she was. You just never know."

The Slayer's cell phone buzzed in her pocket, clamoring for attention. Checking the incoming message with a frown, she dropped the mobile back to her lap. "You have pictures of those plates, the ones that spooked you?"

Aricka nodded. "I think so. Let me go check my phone. And if not, the plates should still be in the biohazard bin in the lab. I was supposed to call facilities for a pick-up yesterday, but . . ."

"I got it." Faith closed her laptop, considering their options. "You feel comfortable going back there?"

"I'm starting to feel a little silly and trapped," replied Aricka shortly. "I don't usually allow fear to get the better of me. I would hate to start now. Besides, I'm curious as to how this paranormal investigations thing works in practice."

Grinning wolfishly, the Slayer shoved her computer into her backpack and rose to her feet. "Okay. Let's do it. I just gotta make a phone call real quick. I'll meet you outside in the hall." She stepped out of the apartment and flipped open her cell.

While the call dialed out, Faith shifted her weight from foot to foot. On an awkwardness scale from one to ten, this would probably hit right in the high-school Willow range.

"Hello?" A woman's voice answered, brisk and cheerful.

"Buffy?" Someday, Faith would manage to have conversations with B without sounding like a scolded child. Apparently, today was not that day.

The cheer automatically drained from Buffy's voice. "Faith?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"How did you get this number?" Buffy's tone remained polite, but only just. "Never mind. Giles, right?"

"Yeah."

The blonde exhaled heavily into the phone. Faith could almost hear her thinking, debating about whether or not to hang up. "What do you want?" Buffy asked at length, clearly exhausted by the reappearance of her least favorite Slayer. "Last time we met, you tried to strangle me, remember?"

"B, I'm sorry –"

Unable to restrain herself, the other woman snapped, "When aren't you sorry?"

Guilt surged in Faith's gut, as familiar and unwelcome as any of her mother's former boyfriends. She contemplated just giving up. Nearly anything was preferable to a dressing-down from Buffy. There was too much history there, and even when Faith wasn't actually in the wrong, she could never be a hundred percent vindicated. As far as Buffy was concerned, Faith was a screw-up. Always had been, always would be. Didn't matter if she was on the right side of things for the moment. Give her five minutes and a bit of rope, and she'd betray you and hang herself.

But this call wasn't about her, and so Faith forced herself to persevere. "Buffy. I really am sorry. It – it was complicated. But I shouldn't have . . . I shouldn't have . . . I'm sorry I lost control."

"I know," admitted Buffy grudgingly. "I talked to Giles last week. He explained that you were undercover, that I misread things. I guess it's a little my fault, too. You weren't the only one who got caught up in the fight."

Knowing that this was superbly magnanimous for the Buffster and that it was the best she was going to get, Faith took the comment and moved on. "So . . . I heard through the grapevine about when you were dead. How you went to Heaven until the Scoobettes brought you back. And how, for a while, you didn't really want to be back."

"Faith . . ." It was a warning. "What's your point?"

Swallowing hastily, Faith continued, "I have a friend. He had this near-death experience, and someone used some pretty hefty black magic to trade their life for his. He's having a hard time being . . . being . . ."

"Being alive."

"Yeah."

"This that hunter friend of yours? Dave?"

"Dean. How did you –?"

"Willow and Giles have mentioned him once or twice. Are you two . . .?"

"No," said Faith curtly, determined to cut off that line of thought before it ran too rampant.

"What do you want me to do?"

"If . . . would . . . would you be willing to talk to him? I dunno – answer his questions or something?"

This was a step too far. "You told him about me?" asked Buffy, affronted.

Faith tripped over her tongue. "No, of course not. He doesn't know about you. Well, he knows about you, but he doesn't know about this. If that makes sense."

"Having trouble finding your words?" The blonde relaxed enough to mess with her. Some of the tension eased out of Faith's shoulder blades.

"Would it be okay if I told him about you? If he maybe called you? I don't know what to do."

"So you turn to me." Her voice was heavy with irony. "Imagine that."

"Buffy . . . please?"

"Sure. I guess. Just watch the time difference, okay?"

"Yeah. Of course. Thanks, B. I really appreciate it."

"Uh huh. Keep out of trouble, Faith."

"You, too."

With a snort, Buffy ended the call. Faith took a moment to stare at the phone in her hands before tucking it into her pocket. She rapped with her knuckles on Aricka's door. "Okay," she called through the wood. "Let's go find these monster cells of yours."

* * *

Sam took his sweet time reading through the documents in Mariana Popescu's murder file. There was a great deal to digest in the inch-and-a-half thick manilla folder, but more than that, he felt the need to go slowly, to understand every detail.

This was the first that he had even tangentially heard from Becky Warren or her brother since the infamous run-in with the skin-shifter in St. Louis. If he were being compeletely honest with himself, he would have to admit that deep inside lingered a secret hope. If he and Dean could solve this case quickly, could work the job without any harm coming to Aricka, then maybe she would pass some of that along to Becky and Zack. And maybe, just maybe, one of them would reach out to him.

He missed Stanford sometimes, a dull, throbbing ache that came and went with no warning. It showed up at night, when he lay on some lumpy squatter's mattress and dreamt about the cozy apartment he used to share with Jessica. Or stepping into a bar filled with co-eds, he would sometimes remember the easy camaraderie that had existed among his friends in California.

Life was different with Dean. Sam had no secrets where his brother was concerned. Not even his thoughts were really private. It was frustrating, it was galling, and there were plenty of days when he would gladly duct-tape Dean's mouth shut or burn his shoebox of cassettes, but in the end, they were tied together. Sam would rather sever contact with a hundred college friends than lose his gradually-healing relationship with his brother.

Still, the hint of yearning remained, and he dawdled over the pages, committing Mariana Popescu's life to memory. Born in a small Romanian town in the mid-sixties, she had acquired her undergraduate education at the Alexandru Ioan Cuza University in Iași, Romania, before completing a Ph.D. at the Humboldt University in Berlin. Dr. Popescu had worked at Harvard as a post-graduate research fellow before accepting her current assistant professorship at Princeton.

Her work dealt with incredibly advanced cancer genetics. Along with a few other scholars, Dr. Popescu appeared to be competing in the race to discover the next big oncogene. Biology had not been Sam's forte in college. He had to stop for a moment and wikipedia a few of the terms in Dr. Popescu's C.V. to even get a vague picture of what her research interests had focused on.

Continuing to read, he rifled through Detective Pearson's interview reports. There was nothing suspicious to be found – well, nothing human and suspicious. There were plenty of holes that his imagination could fill in with sinister supernatural suspicions. According to Aricka's statment, she had found the doors locked when she arrived for work in the morning. Various lab members had stated that it was not unusual for Dr. Popescu to come in early to run experiments, and that she always locked the door behind her.

Further, her fiancé had been working an overnight shift at the University hospital at the time of the murder – he was an interventional radiologist. Pearson had been thorough enough to confer with hospital administrators about the alibi, and it had checked out. Of all the people interviewed – coworkers, fiancé, friends, neighbors – none of them had any idea who might have wanted to hurt Dr. Popescu. By all reports, she was a quiet woman, well-respected by her colleagues.

At the moment, the job looked promising enough, but that might just be due to the fact that the investigation was still in its nascent stages. Sam made a copy of the entire file, much to the disappointment and irritation of the other police officers wanting to use the Xerox machine. His mind occupied with strategy and planning, the hunter was oblivious to the dirty glances being shot his way.

Dean was only a few hours into reviewing the tapes and should be busy for a while yet, which made it Sam's responsibility to figure out the next steps. He vacillated, but by the time the final sheet of paper came zipping out of the copier, his decision was made. First, he would skim through the police database to see if any similar deaths had been investigated in the last thirty years or so, and then he would snag Dean's keys and go out to redo some of Pearson's interviews, adding in a few questions of his own.

Returning to the detective's desk, Sam typed in his query into the online program that curated the Princeton police department's cases. At first, nothing looked relevant. He clicked through entry after entry, scanning for key words: homicide, woman, pregnant. Nothing popped. And then, on the fifth page, he saw it.

Seven years ago, a Princeton Ph.D. student had disappeared five days before her wedding. Her body was later found in the basement of the research building where she worked, and a fellow researcher admitted to the murder.

His eyebrows raised, the hunter read through the details of the investigation. As a senior detective, Pearson had access to the case report online. Sam printed out the full report, once again earning the dislike of the bullpen. Ignoring them still, he retreated to Pearson's cubicle with his giant stack of papers. He fished a yellow highlighter out of the jar of pens on the desk and began devouring the old report. Interviews could wait.

* * *

This whole research lab thing wasn't so bad, Faith reasoned as Aricka unlocked the door to the lab. While it was still technically a crime scene, the woman appeared to have no qualms about sneaking in and retrieving her potentially possessed Petri plates. All things considered, Faith was mildly impressed by her guts.

She followed the younger woman into the research facility, taking note of the high-countered workstations – "lab benches," according to Aricka, for all that they were far too high to be called benches – and the loud ventilation system. Apparently, the loud fans were to mitigate any adverse effects of potential air contaminants. Far more a pragmatist than a scientist, Faith reflected that they would also serve excellently to muffle screams, as well.

Aricka moved quickly and uncomfortably through the lab. She practically twitched as she maneuvered her way around the yellow crime scene tape to a large red plastic barrel in the far corner, marked 'biohazardous waste.'

"Cover your nose," she warned before jerking the lid to the barrel open.

"What?" asked the Slayer, but the reason became instantly apparent. With the lid cast aside, a strong smell of something weird and rotten pervaded the room. It wasn't quite like anything else. Not like trash or carrion or vomit. But it was foul enough to turn the edges of Faith's stomach. "Disgusting." She covered her nose with her jean jacket sleeve. "What is that?"

Unmoved, the research assistant dug through the stacks and stacks of circular plastic plates in the biohazard container. Although all were taped shut and many were bagged in clear plastic, the smell only grew worse. "Marcie has been growing yeast for a plasmid transformation, I think. And then there's the E. coli that Jeremy works with. Liz and I stick to human cells, mostly, which smell less. They get pretty pungent when you have this many of them in the biohazard bin, though. We got a new immortalised cell line in the lab fairly recently, and we're still working out the kinks. It doesn't grow in the incubator quite like Dr. Popescu wanted it to."

"Immortal cell line?" asked Faith through the fabric of her sleeve. "What's that?"

"Immortalised," corrected Aricka automatically. She had removed approximately half the contents of the bin. The room reeked of bacteria and fungi, expensive and loud ventilation system be damned. "They're populations of cells that come from a multicellular organism – often animal or human – that normally would die off after a certain number of generations, or reproductive cycles, but have mutated their genes in such a way that they can keep dividing and reproducing indefinitely. They're great to use in the lab because you can keep them growing for longer periods of time than other cell lines."

"Huh. I actually understood some of that. So what you're saying is that these cells have been changed so that they can grow forever? They never actually die?"

"Individual cells die, of course, but the population of cells continues to grow, yes."

"Right." The Slayer was so in over her head. "Do you need help looking for those plates?" she offered.

"No, I've reached the end. They aren't in here." Aricka sat back on her heels and shook her head. "Weird. I could have sworn I threw them out. I try to stay on top of my plates. But maybe I left them at my bench."

After replacing dozens of Petri dishes neatly back into the biohazard bin, she ducked beneath the crime scene tape and crossed the lab to one of the counters on the far side. Pulling out a tall, black chair, Aricka sat down and began sorting through a stack of thirty plates. "Here they are." She set aside five of the plates for Faith to look at. "Huh. That's funny."

"What is?" Faith picked up the closest plate and examined it. The clear surface of the gel inside was coated with a trail of cream-colored gloopy dots that clearly spelled out the letters w-h-o-r-e.

"I had eight of these." She opened a black and white composition notebook and flipped through it to the last full page. "Yeah." Aricka pointed to an entry on the page. "See this? I made eight plates."

"That's . . . weird," said the Slayer for lack of a better word. "And they weren't in the biohazard?"

"No. I looked very carefully."

Faith swallowed. "Could anyone else have taken them, borrowed them for something?"

"Touching someone else's projects without permission isn't really done."

The two women stared at the five plates in silence, wondering where the missing three could have gone. At length, Faith gave it up for lost. "Well, unless we tear this whole place apart, I'm not sure that we can find them."

"Does it matter?" wondered Aricka, nervousness creeping into her voice.

Grabbing the five plates, the Slayer tucked them into the inside pocket of her jacket. "I dunno. Have to ask Dean or Sam. Ghosts aren't really my thing."

"You're a paranormal investigator, and ghosts . . . aren't your thing?"

"It's a long story. Come on – we can stop for milkshakes on the drive home, and I'll tell you in the car."

"All right." Aricka glanced around the room apprehensively. "Wait a minute."

"What is it?"

"Do you smell that?"

Faith frowned. "Smell what – the biohazard stuff?"

"No. Something else. Underneath that."

Closing her eyes, Faith inhaled deeply through her nose. She forced away the urge to cough. The yeast – or bacteria – or whatever – stank. But Aricka was right. Underneath the smell of rotting organic material, there was something else. Something vaguely familiar.

It came to her in a rush, and the Slayer grabbed Aricka's arm, ignoring her protests as she dragged her towards the lab door. "Gas," she choked by way of explanation. Her feet tangled in the crime scene tape, but Faith continued stumbling to the door. Fingers closing around the door handle, she shoved it open and pushed Aricka out into the hallway as the lab bench where they had been standing moments previous exploded into flames.

 


	42. Dance, Monkey, Dance! pt 4

 

* * *

**August 30, 2006, Princeton, New Jersey, 5:15 p.m.**

Faith threw herself on top of Aricka as fire engulfed the laboratory. Smoke billowed out into the hallway, and the women gagged. Hands and knees aching from their violent collision with the tile, they crawled away from the laboratory inferno. Alarms blared overhead, triggered by the fire. Moments later, the emergency sprinkler system kicked into gear. Metallic-smelling water poured down from the ceiling in an attempt to extinguish the burning wreck of Aricka's workstation. Stumbling to their feet, the women rounded the far corner.

"How far do you think we need to go?" gasped Aricka.

"Not sure." The Slayer gestured wildly towards the alarms and the sprinklers. "Those call the fire department, yeah?"

"I think so?"

"Right." Faith leaned against the wall, coughing. Her breath came in sharp, short pants. "I'm just gonna stay here, then. We'll be able to see if it gets worse."

"Shouldn't we get out of the building?"

"It seems contained for the moment, but yeah, probably." The Slayer's lungs burned and ached. She did not want to take another step, much less run down three flights of stairs. Sucking in a deep breath, she pushed away from the wall and started trudging towards the emergency stairway. "Come on."

The women hurried down the stairs as fast as they could, and soon they were part of a mass of people fumbling their way out into the parking lot as the fire alarms continued to ring out, painfully loud.

"Let's not do that again," wheezed Aricka, bending in half as she huffed and puffed for air.

"Agreed." Relieved of the pressure of having to get out, Faith noticed a stinging sensation on the back of her calf. She cranked her neck around to look over her shoulder. "Oh, sh-t." The leg of her jeans was on fire.

Without stopping to think, Faith kicked at the smoldering embers with her other foot. This only served to spread them, and within seconds smoke began creeping up from the hem of that pant leg. She yanked off her jacket and began vigorously beating the flames out. By the time they were extinguished successfully, the Slayer's jeans were thoroughly charred below the knee, and red wheals had started to appear on her calves and ankles.

"Frakking hell," groaned the Slayer. She brushed one of the reddened marks with a finger and recoiled at the pain. "I do not get paid enough for this."

* * *

Upon reflection, it was undoubtably a good thing that Dean and his brother were undercover, Faith decided as the Impala screeched to a halt behind the cavalcade of fire trucks and police cruisers that had answered the fire alarms. Maybe this way she could delay the inevitable tongue-lashing.

She attempted to hide in the back of the crowd, but by then, bystanders had already pointed Aricka and her out to the other policemen. The Slayer kept her mouth shut and allowed the other woman to do the talking. Aricka introduced her as an old friend from high school and explained that she had been at the lab to pick up her spare computer charger.

The uniformed police officer was notably unimpressed. As he opened his mouth to press the issue, two suited FBI agents unfolded themselves from their classic ride and approached the trio.

"Agents Angus and Young. We can take over from here, Officer." Sam flashed his badge and looked serious.

Nodding in deference to the feds, the policeman stepped away to confer with the fire chief.

In an effort to pretend to continue with the interview, Sam asked. "Can you ladies tell us what happened?"

"The truth," added Dean, giving Faith a burning look that was nearly as bad as yelling.

"We were trying to find these," Aricka explained. She held up the five culture plates that they had saved from the laboratory. "Just in case you wanted to test them or something . . ."

She continued with the story, but Faith paid her no attention. The Slayer was far too occupied with trying not to make further eye contact with Dean. Going into the lab had been stupid, and she knew it. She didn't need the added humiliation of a lecture.

"What happened to your jeans?" he demanded in a quiet, harsh voice.

Faith shrugged. "Nothing. I just got a little singed."

"You got singed?" Sam glanced over, curious.

"Turn around. Let me see."

"Dean –"

"Agent Young."

Rolling her eyes, the Slayer tried again. "Agent Young –"

"Show me."

Whatever. If he wanted to see them so much, that was just fine by Faith. She jerked the blackened material up past her knees and turned in a slow three-sixty circle. "Satisfied?"

"You need to get checked out," Sam broke in before the staring contest between his brother and the Slayer could get too much more awkward. "Both of you."

"I'm fine," protested Aricka.

"Smoke inhalation."

Her face fell. "Oh."

"I'm not going to the hospital," Faith insisted, her tone alien and flat. "Not when all I need's cold water, some burn gel, and a pack of the big bandages you can get at the drugstore."

"Those burns look pretty intense."

It was Sam's turn to be the the Winchester brother that Faith whirled on, her fake smile serving as a thin veneer for the anger beneath. "They're fine," she snapped. "I can handle it. Nowhere near as bad as the ifrit burns. Remember that, Agent Young?"

Dean had the sense to look abashed at her words. Aware of the police officers and firemen who were beginning to edge nearer, he said, "Ma'am, can I ask you to step aside for a moment? My partner and I have some questions that we'd like to ask the two of your separately."

Her fake smile only increased in wattage. "Of course, Agent. Lead the way."

The hunter waited until they were fifteen feet away from everyone else before speaking again. "You sure you don't need to go to the hospital?"

Faith ground her teeth. "Of course I'm sure."

"Okay, so what's the pain at, then? Scale of one to ten."

"Five."

"Scale of one to ten for someone else."

"Seven."

"Faith – "

"Look – like I said, water, burn gel, bandages, and they'll be right as rain in a week or two."

"You're gonna need pain meds."

Crossing her arms over her stomach, she frowned as if put off by something the agent was saying. "What makes you think I don't have them already?"

Dean leaned forward into the conversation, unconsciously mirroring her posture and crossing his own arms. "Do you?"

"I always have meds on me. You never know what's going to happen. Besides . . ."

"Sometimes you like the edge taken off things."

"Don't you?"

He ran a hand over his five o'clock shadow, smiling in spite of himself. "I had forgotten how much of a pain in the ass you could be."

Crisis averted, the tension between them dissipated easily. Faith smirked up at him, her brown eyes mocking. "Whatever. You're just lucky that I'm your pain in the ass. How's the case coming?"

"I honestly don't know. Sam was all excited about some big news that he found earlier, but he didn't get a chance to tell me. Other than blowing up university buildings, you figure out anything?"

"Not sure yet. Do you want me to keep up the babysitting duty?"

"If you can – with your legs and all . . ."

For the moment, she had forgotten about the pain, but now his words drew her attention back to it. "Right. You think you can get away from being an FBI agent long enough to help me wrap these up?"

Confused by the specificity of her request, Dean pointed out, "You could ask Aricka."

"No thanks. I'd rather not go with the unexperienced. And since I'm pretty sure you don't want your little brother seeing me in my underwear . . ."

"I'll figure out something."

"Good." She shifted her weight from foot to foot, wincing slightly. "'Cause calling this a seven might have been underestimating it a bit."

"Faith," the hunter groaned in exasperation. He reached out a hand to steady her, but the Slayer waved him away.

"Easy, Agent Young. Can't be laying hands on a witness." With a smirk that wavered a little at the edges, Faith started moving back in the direction of Sam and Aricka. "You go pick up some extra supplies, meet us at the apartment, and we can take care of it from there."

Far be it from him to argue with the plan that made the most logistic sense. Dean raised his voice a fraction for the benefit of any local LEOs in earshot. "Thank you for your time, ma'am. You might want to plan on sticking around town for the next few days, in case we have any further questions."

Her snarky grin fading, the Slayer reassumed the serious, concerned face expected of a minor burn victim and potential witness. "Of course, Agent. I'll leave my phone number with your partner. That all right?"

As they strolled towards the others, Dean casually stuck his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. "It's five by five."

* * *

Two minutes into the car ride back to Aricka's apartment, and Faith was seriously reconsidering her hospital embargo. Even with her heels jammed up against the dashboard, the motion of the car jarred against the burns on her calves. It required excessive amounts of self-control to keep from cursing an extraordinarily vehement blue streak.

"You okay?" asked Aricka, glancing at the Slayer out of the corner of her eye with concern. "Are you sure you don't need to go to the emergency room or urgent care or –"

"Drive," Faith ordered through clenched teeth. She stared fiercely at the buildings flashing by as though focusing on them would decrease her discomfort. "Oh, g-d. Just drive."

In response, the younger woman pushed the gas pedal down to the floor. "You got it."

Once they arrived, there was nothing for it but to work through the pain. Faith gave Aricka a forty-five second head start to the front door, and then she gradually levered herself out of the shotgun seat. Breathing heavily, the Slayer took a moment. She forced herself to remember other injuries and worse pain, until the fiery ache in her calves seemed manageable.

Putting one heavy boot in front of the other, she slowly walked up to the apartment and moved into the bathroom. Later, looking back, Faith would be incredibly proud that she had not limped. As she closed the bathroom door, she asked for a pair of heavy-duty scissors and a wash cloth.

The Slayer did not bother attempting to pull her jeans off. With the amount of fire damage below the knees, they were unsalvageable. Instead, Faith dulled the kitchen scissors by slicing up along the outside seams of her jeans, from the bottom hem all the way up to the waistband. She dropped the pieces of fabric to the linoleum floor and removed her Doc Martens, fighting a wince each time she accidentally touched the fluid-filled blisters that had blossomed to life around her ankles.

After turning on the tap to run a bath of cool water, Faith paused for breath. She braced her elbows against the counter. While she waited for the bathtub to fill halfway, the Slayer counted burn blisters. Five on her left leg, four on her right, they ranged in size from a dime to slightly larger than a quarter. Most of them had already raised themselves above the level of the skin.

When the water had reached a satisfactory level, she perched on the side of the tub and stretched out her legs. It hurt something awful, but she knew that the spray of a shower head would have been even worse. Faith hesitated until her skin adjusted to the feeling of the water, and then she began carefully washing away the dirt and soot. She had finished and was patting her shins dry with a hand towel when someone knocked on the door.

"Yeah?" she called.

"I got your burn gel."

"Come on in."

As the bathroom door swung open, it was a mark of how far they'd come that Dean's gaze flicked between her eyes and her blisters, ignoring everything in between. He set a large white bottle of Burn Jel, two packs of white gauze, and a small roll of soft-cloth medical tape on the bathroom counter. "That looks better than I thought it would."

"Speak for yourself." Faith watched the hunter bundle up her shredded jeans and tossed them into the trashcan. She felt a pang of regret as the pants disappeared from view. They had been her favorite.

Dean washed his hands for half a minute to decrease the potential for infection and then sat on the rim of the bathtub. He moved the Burn Jel, gauze, and tape with him. Opening a package of gauze, he looked up at her. "I'm glad they're not worse."

"Me, too." The Slayer planted one foot on the fiberglass edge next to him. "Go ahead."

The hunter's touch was gentle as he slathered the burns in gel and bandaged them. Still, there were moments when Faith turned her head away, face red and throat dry. It had been a year since the ifrit, and she had forgotten how bad the first few days of burns had been. Constant pain was preferable to the sudden, instantaneous agony that resurged every time something brushed them. With the gauze providing another layer of protection, this sensitivity would decrease, but for right now, Faith struggled not to punch Dean in the face to make it go away.

He worked quickly, and soon it was all over. "Thanks," Faith mumbled as he ripped the final piece of tape away from the roll and smoothed it down across her ankle. She dropped down onto the closed toilet lid and tilted her skull back against the wall. Dean stuck his head out into the studio in search of her duffel.

Upon his return, she asked, "What's with being all angry and overprotective lately?" The Slayer did not wait for his response, reaching into her duffel and finding the single pair of sweat pants that she had luckily packed. She gingerly slid the sweat pants up and over her new bandages. Only then did she glance in his direction. "What?" she added, exhausted.

With a nonchalant shrug, Dean crumpled the empty gauze packaging and dumped it into the trash. He tugged the bathroom door halfway open and stopped. "I'm tired of losing people," was all he said, and then he was gone.

* * *

Faith gave herself another five minutes to wash her face and pull her crap together before rejoining the others in the studio's main room. When she finally did emerge, both Sam and Aricka had set up shop on the couch, their fingers flying across the keys of their laptops. Apparently, the spontaneous combustion of her lab had made a complete believer out of Aricka.

Dean stood across the room at the small kitchen table, the five Petri plates spread out on the laminated wood in front of him. He had an EMF meter in his hands and was slowly waving it through the air a few inches above the plates. The meter hummed softly and blinked red.

"I've got residual activity over here," he announced.

Aricka flinched. "What does that mean?" she wondered apprehensively.

"It just means that there's been paranormal activity associated with the plates," explained Sam. "Which makes sense. I mean, I'm pretty sure we're all convinced that fire wasn't an accident."

"No," agreed the research assistant with a shiver.

"Sam." Taking control of the situation once again, Dean switched the EMF meter to the 'off' position and shoved it into his back pocket. "What do you got for me? Any violent deaths associated with the building or with Dr. Popescu?"

The younger Winchester sprang into action at his brother's request. He dug a stack out papers out of his laptop bag and handed them over to Dean, who flicked through them while Sam spoke, "So, early August 1999, Belinda Cooper, a Ph.D. student vanished less than a week prior to her wedding. They found her body in the basement of the building where she worked – the same building where Aricka and Dr. Popescu's lab is."

Dean glanced up from reading Sam's notes. "Who killed her?"

"Another researcher."

"Sounds plausible so far. What else did you dig up?" he asked as Faith eased herself down onto the couch on the far side of Aricka. His mood souring, he pretended not to notice the lines of tension around her eyes. If she thought she was in good enough shape to handle this, he wouldn't bother with any special treatment. Not if she was going to call him overprotective.

Checking something on his laptop, Sam hesitated before answering. "Nothing much beyond that. It was an open-and-shut murder case. The entire community turned out for her funeral."

"Funeral? So she's buried around here?" That was the first good news he'd had all day.

"Doesn't say where."

Crap. He'd spoken too soon. Dean sucked his teeth. "Well, that's just awesome."

Sam was quick to pick up on the irritation in his voice. "I'm sure it'll be easy to find," he soothed. "We can call the parents, do a follow-up interview."

"Seven years after the fact?" said Faith skeptically.

"Stranger things have happened."

"Isn't that a little insensitive?" Aricka inserted herself into the conversation.

Dean barked a mirthless laugh. "The Feds aren't exactly famous for their sensitivity." He rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Okay, even if this Cooper chick is buried around here, how do we know it's her? Not like we've got a lot of second chances here. We spend a week digging people up and taking care of the remains, eventually someone's going to notice and make a mess out of it."

As the frustration and anger ramped up in his brother's voice, Sam hurriedly prepared himself to do some major damage control. Whatever it was that had Dean so pissed off, he needed to get him away from the civilians and back out into the field. "Then we've got to do some more searching. You and me, we can go re-do some of Pearson's interviews, check back here in a few hours. Okay?"

Dean glared at him in a way that said he knew exactly what his little brother was trying to do. "No," he said flatly. "I'll go rendezvous with Pearson. You find out more about the murdered Ph.D. student, see if you can locate her grave." His green eyes darted across the couch to Faith. "You want me to pick you up a pack of Camel's?"

The Slayer shook her head. "Nah. I've quit."

"Again?"

"Lily's been on my back."

"Awesome." Lifting his military duffel up from the floor, Dean slung it over his shoulder and left. As the door closed behind him, they could hear a muffled tirade of profanity.

"So…" began Sam awkwardly. "Where shall we start?"

* * *

No one liked an unannounced visit from the FBI. Dean could understand that. He didn't really like surprises himself. But tonight he took vindictive pleasure in dropping by the houses of Dr. Popescu's friends and coworkers. The looks of anxiety and displeasure on their faces when they opened to the door to see an implacable fed in a suit were almost as satisfying as slamming his fist into some biker's teeth. Almost.

He channeled Sam to get himself through the evening, his own self-control running perilously on fumes. Tired and cranky as hell, Dean barely managed to straddle the thin line between polite professionalism and military-grade interrogator. He hadn't gotten a decent night's sleep in who knew how long, and even he was willing to admit that he had started to fray around the edges.

The hunter only managed to repeat four of the interviews with the other people who worked in the lab. Dr. Popescu's fiancé was not at home, and he did not answer his cell phone. Dean accounted this to the man being on the night shift again. He left a message from Agent Young and moved on to the next researcher.

Allowing for human variation, the information they gave him meshed exactly with what they had told Detective Pearson. Dr. Popescu had no enemies. She was a quiet, nice woman who was extremely dedicated to her work, her fiancé, and her parents back in Romania. They had no idea who could have done something terrible like this.

Around nine p.m., fed up, Dean swung back by the police station to check in with Pearson, who had finished running the security tapes. They were completely unremarkable. No strangers or visitors had entered the research building that morning, and all the university employees who passed by on the tapes had been checked out, at least preliminarily.

"No leads – again," Pearson expressed his bewilderment and frustration, his eyes bloodshot from the long hours of staring at a television screen. "God. It's just like that other case all over again. We didn't have any leads for weeks then, either."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Other case?"

Turning off the television monitor, the detective shook his head. "A few years back. Another woman was murdered in that same building. M.O. wasn't quite the same, but it was asphyxiation back then, too."

"Could it be the same guy?" Dean prompted.

"No. He's been locked up in New Jersey State Prison for the last six years. In there for life, if I remember right." Detective Pearson sighed and extended his hand for Dean to shake. "Well, Agent Young, I'll see you back here in the morning?"

The younger man nodded. "My partner or I will be there."

"Good. You should get some sleep," advised the detective as they walked slowly out of the bullpen. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

 


	43. Dance, Monkey, Dance! pt 5

 

* * *

**August 30th, 2006, Princeton, New Jersey, 8:30 p.m.**

"Mrs. Cooper?"

"Yes," answered a sharp female voice. "To whom am I speaking?"

Sam looked across the room at Faith, who had passed out on the carpet, her head pillowed on one arm, her dark hair obscuring her face. In the kitchenette, Aricka was busy throwing together some homemade stir fry for everyone. It had been half an eternity since lunch. "I'm Agent Angus, with the FBI."

The woman's voice became even sharper. "The FBI? Why . . . Does this have something to do with that man?"

"Er, ma'am?"

She continued impatiently. "The man who murdered my daughter. Have there been any updates on his appeal?"

"Oh. No, ma'am. Not as far as I am aware of."

"Then why are you calling, Agent?" demanded Mrs. Cooper with the air of a woman who didn't take nonsense from anyone.

Swallowing, Sam braced himself for the impending discomfort of the next few minutes. "Our office is trying to prepare for the next appeal hearing," he lied easily. "We just wanted to review some of the facts of the case with you, in case you need to testify."

"At this hour?"

"I apologize, ma'am. I know it's an inconvenience."

Mrs. Cooper huffed into the receiver. "Inconvenient is not the word to describe it, Agent Angus," she observed dryly. Exhaustion crept into her tone. "I would rather think that we had gone through all of this enough times already, but if you insist . . . what would you like to know?"

Frankly, the only piece of information that Sam needed from her was the location of Belinda's grave, but he wasn't quite so green as to lead out with that. Instead, he used the crime report from Detective Pearson's computer to frame this interview.

At first, it was slow going. Mrs. Cooper was naturally suspicious and resentful of anyone asking questions about her daughter, despite the seven years that had passed since the murder. Sam could hear the barely concealed grief in her voice, the pain and regret. There was also a great deal of resentment present, targeted towards him for dragging her back through all of this another time.

Although discouraged, Sam persevered, and eventually her resentment gave way to a grudging respect. This new FBI agent was very thorough, and his recurring dedication to ensuring that the man who killed Belinda never put so much as a toe out of prison gradually calmed her ire. By the end of the interview, when he slipped in a final question about where her daughter was buried, Mrs. Cooper did not even balk at answering him.

"She was interred at the Princeton Cemetery right beside Nassau Presbyterian Church," she replied with a slight sniff. In the process of reliving the worst time of her life, Mrs. Cooper had started weeping silently. "The University insisted on paying for it. They told me that it was a great honor, you know. There are presidents and Nobel prize winners buried there. All I could think of was that my baby girl would be all alone – there's no way her father and I could ever afford to be buried there."

After expressing his condolences and thanking her for her time, Sam extricated himself from the conversation. He closed his phone and set it on the coffee table next to his laptop. For the next ten minutes, the hunter was consumed by typing up the conversation so that he could share it with Dean later. When he finally lifted his gaze away from the computer screen, Faith had awoken and was watching him with a neutral expression in her brown eyes.

"You lie even better than your brother," she observed, her words muffled by Aricka's loud humming from the kitchenette.

He tilted his head to one side. "Is that a compliment?"

"That depends. You get what you were looking for?"

Sam glanced down at his notes. "I think so. I have a gravesite, anyway."

"I guess that's a start." The Slayer awkwardly pushed herself to her feet, wincing as one of her legs brushed against the other. "Ugh. I'm so over this."

Concern filled his voice. "How bad are they?"

"Not the worst I've ever had, but bad enough." Faith paused. When she continued, her tone was far more calculating. "Your brother keeps twigging about them."

Incredulous, the hunter raised an eyebrow. "Twigging?"

"You know – like wigging but with a little extra emphasis."

"Wigging?"

"Three years at Stanford didn't get you up to date on all the latest California slang?"

He chuckled. "Stanford's in NorCal, remember? We don't speak your Sunnydale SoCal lingo."

"Point taken." Limping slightly, Faith crossed the room and examined the Petri dishes on the kitchen table. She pulled a zippo lighter out of her back pocket. "Wanna watch one of these go up?" she taunted, mischief gleaming in her eyes and grin.

Sam half-rose from his seat on the couch. "Don't do that," he warned. "Not a good idea."

The Slayer flicked the lighter and smiled at the pale yellow flame. "You're probably right," she admitted, clicking the lighter off again. "I've played with fire enough for one day."

Relieved, the man sank down into the white upholstery. "If you're looking for something to do, why don't you call Dean, see when he's going to be back?"

Faith regarded him skeptically. "Uh huh. What, you too chicken to do it yourself?" She lowered her voice so that Aricka would not be able to hear.

"That's not – No. Of course I'm not."

"Then why don't you call him?" she asked, the picture of logical reason.

"Because I'm busy trying to find out whatever I can about this cemetery," said Sam, returning to his computer. "Just in case we end up crashing some ghost's party tonight."

"Whatever."

**To: 7855552575**  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 9:01 p.m.  
Message:

You coming back anytime soon?

. . . .

**To: 2135556081**  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 9:06 p.m.  
Message:

Just finished up with Pearson. On my way now. You and Sam hungry?

. . . .

**To: 7855552575**  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 9:10 p.m.  
Message:

Aricka's making stir fry. Since I saved her skin today and all.

. . . .

**To: 2135556081**  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 9:15 p.m.  
Message:

Enough for four?

. . . .

**To: 7855552575**  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 9:17 p.m.  
Message:

Only if you get here in the next fifteen minutes.

. . . .

**To: 2135556081**  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 9:20 p.m.  
Message:

Be there in 5.

. . . .

* * *

After dinner, Faith ignored the throbbing in her legs to help Aricka with the dishes while Dean and Sam conferred in low voices in the kitchen. She figured that this was their show, which was all well and good with Faith. The Slayer just had an intense longing for sleep. On something that wasn't a car seat or a floor.

Although she was not intending to eavesdrop, the angry conversation between the brothers spilled over into the kitchenette, and both Aricka and Faith cocked an ear to listen.

"Dean," Sam was urging. "Look at this. It all makes sense – this murder must be connected to the one in ninety-nine. I say we go hit the cemetery tonight, dig her up, burn the bones, and call it solved."

But Dean was shaking his head. Three helpings of rice and vegetables had dulled the fraying ends of his nerves, leaving pure exhaustion and a light dose of common sense in their wake. "I want to be sure."

"We are sure."

"Not sure enough." The hunter rolled his shoulders backwards and arched his back into a stretch. "Look, Sam, if this cemetery is as full of dead, famous, rich guys as you say it is, it isn't going to be your friendly little knee-high rock fence New England graveyard. Hell, they might even have night security."

"Which we can easily dodge."

"All right, maybe we could, but not tonight. We'll do a little more searching tomorrow, drop by in the morning and case the joint, and make a plan. Then we can get in, get out, and take care of Belinda Cooper no problem."

"Dean – "

His older brother's voice dropped to a whisper. Faith could still pick up on it, but she was hoping that Aricka couldn't. "Are you really asking me to risk another run-in with the cops for a simple case? G-d, Sam, we get caught, they run our prints, and I'm off up the river before you can bat those puppy dog eyes of yours."

"So what – we're just giving up?"

"No, you idiot. It's after ten. One of us'll stay here, the others will grab a motel room, and we'll get back on it first thing in the morning. Okay?"

Knowing when to admit defeat, Sam nodded in acquiescence. "Okay. But I'm staying tonight. You look like you got run over by a Mac truck, and Faith isn't much better."

"You catch all that?" Dean called into the kitchen.

The Slayer pretended to almost drop a pot in surprise. "What?" she called back innocently.

"You heard me." The hunter turned back to his younger brother, whose eyebrows were raised in a silent question. "Slayer," he explained in an undertone. Stepping away from Sam, he strolled into the kitchen.

"It's time for us to be hitting the road," he announced, smiling at Aricka. "But Sam'll stay here overnight, just in case. That work alright for you?"

Aricka glanced at the six-four man currently occupying her living room. "That should be fine. When will you and Faith be back?"

The hunter shrugged. "Tomorrow morning, early. Sam and I have still got some investigating to do at the police station – and we'll need to head back to the lab." He turned to Faith. "You ready to head out?"

"Whenever you are, cowboy." It was the Slayer's casual version of a 'Hell, yes,' which Dean well knew. A small smile formed at the corners of his mouth. Faith gathered her duffel and backpack, more than ready to finally get some real sleep.

"Okay. Sam, we'll see you in the morning. Try not to set any more fires," Dean added to Aricka as a parting shot.

"Is he always that charming?" asked the research assistant ironically once the hunter and Slayer had left.

Sam did his best not to smile. "Oh, you have no idea."

* * *

**August 31st, 2006, Princeton, New Jersey, 8:30 a.m.**

If God existed – which Faith kinda doubted, – and if she ever got to meet him – which she doubted even more – the first thing she would do would be to thank him for inventing sleep. The second thing would probably be to kick him in the divine jewels and ask him what in hell's name he was thinking, setting up the universe the way he had. This was probably why she would never actually meet the Creator of the cosmos. And funnily enough, Faith could deal with that.

She was startled out of a pleasant dream involving a beach, the new James Bond actor, and ice cream sundaes by the blaring chords and crashing cymbals of Warrant's "Cherry Pie." Giving in to her first impulse, the Slayer buried her face in her pillow and tried in vain to return to her fantasy. Unfortunately, the music only increased in volume. Faith kept to her resolve and attempted to drown out the mullet rock by remembering how the sun on her skin had felt in the dream.

When a voice soared out above the track in a valiant attempt to sing karaoke, she finally admitted defeat.

"Swingin' to the drums, swingin' to guitar, swingin' to the bass in the back of my car. Ain't got money, ain't got no gas, but we'll get where we're goin' if we swing real fast. I scream, you scream, we all scream for her. Don't even try 'cause you can't ignore her!"

Enough. The Slayer swung her legs over the side of the bed, ignoring any burn pain, and stormed across the motel room, seconds away from telling Dean to can it, or she would happily make him a soprano. Her annoyance dissipated when she slammed open the bathroom door to find him toweling off his hair and dancing to the music with his back to her, completely oblivious as to her presence.

"She's my cherry pie. Cool drink of water, such a sweet surprise," the man continued singing in a rather hoarse voice, rolling his shoulders from side to side. "Tastes so good, make a grown man cry. Sweet cherry pie . . . oh." Dean turned around and saw her. "Morning," he said cheerfully. "How're the legs?"

Whatever scathing retort Faith had in mind vanished as she became distracted by the beads of water trailing down the man's naked chest to the towel wrapped around his waist. If distance made the heart grow fonder, apparently it also made the eyes grow forgetful. Either that, or someone had been working out.

"My eyes are up here," Dean reminded her with a sh-t-eating grin. "So unless you're feeling like a little show and tell yourself, you might want to hand me that shirt." He gestured to his clothes, folded in a pile on the counter beside her.

One of Faith's hands brushed over the undershirt and suit pants, while the other drifted to the hem of her t-shirt. "This shirt?" she teased.

"Nice try." The hunter reached past her for his clothing, and for a split second, his body pressed against hers. It was entirely intentional. Dean smirked as he tugged his shirt over his head, the movement making the towel slip down a centimeter. "But we're on a case, remember?"

Turning her back so that he could change, the Slayer groaned. "I can't believe you're throwing that one at me. I said that three years ago, Dean. Three years ago."

"Sorry." He even sounded a tad regretful. "But Sam's already sent me half a dozen text messages this morning, and we're due to meet Detective Pearson in thirty minutes. Think you can be ready that fast?"

Faith surveyed her tangled bed-head in the mirror. "You get out of here so I can take a shower, and, yeah, I'll be ready."

"You know that as soon as the water starts, I'll be back in here to shave, right?"

The woman sighed. "Yes. But right now, would you just go?"

"You let me know if you need a hand with those bandages?"

"Dean!"

Still smirking, the hunter held up his hands in a placating gesture. "All right, all right. I'm gone."

* * *

Keeping his promise from the day before, Dean stopped at a McDonald's drive-through on the route back to Aricka's. Coffee and McMuffins in hand, hunter and Slayer continued bickering and teasing each other on the way from their motel to the apartment building. With a good night's sleep under their belts, everything felt normal and natural. The sun was shining, they had a ghost to hunt down and a good idea of where to find it, and the five milligrams of Lortab that Faith had downed with her coffee did wonders. Today, they could take on the world – and win.

Born up on the painkillers within and the warm sun without, Faith decided that now was as good of a time as any to try her luck. She didn't care how awkward it might be, she would name the silent elephant crowding into the Impala with them.

"Hey, Dean," she started, her mouth full of egg and English muffin.

"Yeah?"

"About the other night . . ."

She did not need to specify which night she meant. Dean knew. She could tell by the way his face seemed to shut down, and the laughter drained from his green eyes. "Yeah?" he repeated, this time defensively. "What?"

"Would . . . would you like to talk to someone about it?"

Dean stared at her as if she had gone crazy and had just asked him if he wanted kale in his breakfast. "What are you going on about?"

"My, er, friend, Buffy. She went through something kind of like this, not too long ago. She was in Heaven, and then she was alive again. She didn't want to be," concluded Faith, her drug-induced happiness fast clearing away.

"I thought Buffy wasn't your friend," the hunter commented in confusion, looking away to switch lanes.

Faith swallowed thickly. "I thought . . . I thought that maybe she could help. That, uh, talking to her could help. Since she's been through something a little similar . . ."

The Impala jerked to a halt as they approached a stop light. "Similar to what?" asked Dean in a quiet voice. Faith knew that she ought to stop now, before quiet became menacing, but somehow she had lost control of her tongue.

"Similar to you." The Slayer knew the instant that she said it that it had been a giant mistake. As the traffic light switched to green, Dean floored the gas pedal. Faith was jammed against her seat by inertia, and her seat belt cut into her throat.

"Not your business, Faith." The warning was a hair's breadth away from being a snarl.

"Sorry," she gasped, reaching for her seat belt and pulling it away from her neck. Faith coughed, the remains of her McMuffin forgotten in her lap. "Sorry. I just thought –"

"Don't," Dean snapped. He couldn't believe this. "You're not that good at it."

The Slayer waited to catch her breath before responding. "That was mean," she said. "That's new for you."

Dean whirled on her in a flurry of disbelief and betrayal. "What did you tell her?"

"Just that you almost died, and someone worked some pretty nasty mojo to bring you back. I didn't tell her that the person who did it was your dad. And I sure as hell didn't mention anything about the demon, or your promise, or Sam."

Some of the anger faded from his eyes. "I'm not talking to her."

"And I wasn't ever going to try to make you. I just wanted . . . wanted you to have somebody to talk to. In case you wanted to, you know . . . ."

He scoffed. "And what makes you think that I would want to talk to Buffy?"

Faith slunk down in her seat. "I thought that maybe she could understand better, that she'd be able to help or . . . or something."

The hunter turned another burning gaze on her, although this one was full of something other than fury, something that the Slayer didn't think she could identify or explain. "Faith." He said her name slowly, like a story or a mantra or a prayer. "Faith. I told  _you_. Don't really need or want to tell anyone else."

"Oh."

"Yeah." His anger dissipating, Dean returned his attention to the road as he navigated the turn into Aricka's apartment complex. The car bounced gently, crossing a speed bump, and he flashed one last half-smile in her direction. "Just don't tell Sam. He gets all pissy if I have an emotion without him."

* * *

Dean did not bother with entering the apartment. They were late to meet Detective Pearson, so he just asked Faith to run in and send Sam out. While he was waiting, he turned on the radio. For a college town, Princeton had crappy music. The only stations that came in without static were NPR, a horrendous country station that was playing some teenage girl whining about Tim McGraw, and a local news channel.

He tried NPR for about thirty seconds, but the current feature was some New-Agey thing about finding your inner peace and self-empowerment, and Dean simply did not have the patience for that this morning. So he spun the dial back to the news channel and listened to the announcer report all the minor drama that had happened overnight. Yesterday's fire at the University was mentioned briefly, as was another homicide in one of the suburbs – this one a straight-forward domestic argument that escalated into the use of firearms.

Half his mind on the case, the other half on what had just happened, the hunter barely paid attention to the radio. The words faded into a meaningless buzz as his hands drummed on the steering wheel. What was taking Sam so long? Did he have to straighten his hair or something?

Pulled out of his reverie by irritation, the hunter scanned the parking lot, his mind clearing just enough to catch the reporter saying, "And in national news, people in York, Pennsylvania, can sleep peacefully tonight. Police have arrested Jack Shetland, a waiter at the Accomac Inn, for the recent murder of his coworker, Iris Decker. According to sources in the sheriff's office, Shetland has since confessed to the 2003 murder of Jess Taylor, who also worked at the Accomac Inn. No details have emerged so far as to the motive behind these killings."

Something about that story niggled at the back of his mind. Why did the Accomac Inn sound familiar? Had he driven there, eaten there, hunted there? Dean scanned through his memory. Before he could fully reflect, however, Sam finally came out of the building and was knocking on the car window. It wasn't until they were halfway across town to the police station that it sank in.

January 2004. York, Pennsylvania. It had been the first job he worked with Faith. The one with the crazy ghost who was all butthurt about being rejected. Johnny Coyle. Jess Taylor had been the girl he killed. Shetland couldn't have done it.

Unless – and this was a thought that seared through Dean's brain, leaving nothing but confusion and a terrible, awful ache behind – unless they had been wrong, and Coyle only rose because they were disturbing his grave. Unless Shetland had been the killer all along and had slipped underneath both of their noses.

Mild panic coursed along behind the ache. If they had messed up on that case, how many other times had he screwed up? Were there other murderers in other towns, walking free because he hadn't been able to tell human wickedness from ghost savagery? The hunter's fingers tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles gleamed white.

"Dude."

Dean had never been so grateful for one of Sam's interruptions. "Huh?"

"You weren't even listening to me – were you?"

The hunter removed one hand from the steering wheel and set it on the doorframe. He forced himself to relax a hair. "I'm listening, I'm listening. What is it?"

"I was telling you – I stayed up till midnight doing more research, and then I skimmed through the police database again this morning. I swear, Dean, I'm ninety-nine point nine percent confident that the ghost we're dealing with is Belinda Cooper."

"I'm not convinced."

"Dean. It all fits. I've checked and rechecked. How much more sure do we need to be?"

The man hesitated, torn between expediency and surety. He eased the Impala into a narrow parking space between a Crown Vic and a black Suburban. "We talk to Pearson, scan the lab with an EMF meter, talk to the fiancé, test those samples Aricka brought back. Then we decide."

* * *

\

 


	44. Dance, Monkey, Dance! pt 6

* * *

Sam had difficulty paying attention to Detective Pearson's morning debrief. None of the information he presented was new. Everything he had to say, Sam had either already heard it from Dean or looked it up on the police department's online system earlier that morning. Still, Dean seemed engrossed, actively scribbling down notes onto a sketch pad, and so Sam decided to play along.

Apart from the negative security tape results and further discussion of this murder's similarity to that of Belinda Cooper in 1999, Pearson had little to add this morning. When he finished the debrief, Sam watched his brother look up and ask very casually if the fire chief had finished evaluating yesterday's lab explosion.

The detective shook his head, "Not yet. They should wrap up sometime later today. The fire department's been a little short-staffed this week," he added at the FBI agents' questioning looks. "But we should be able to drop by ourselves later this afternoon. You boys got anything for me?" he asked, his gaze dropping down to the stacks of paperwork on his desk.

"Nothing new," said Dean. "You got another number for Dr. Popescu's fiancé? The one in the file keeps going to voicemail."

"Huh." Pearson frowned and shuffled through his papers. "What number've you been using?"

"The one on the interview report."

"Okay." A vertical crease deepened between the police officer's eyebrows. "That's the only one that I have. But I could give you his hospital's number, you could try there?"

"Thanks. We'll look into it. Give us a call when the fire investigators finish up?"

The older man nodded. "You got it, Agent. Oh," he said as an afterthought. "Dr. McNeil called up, said we should get the toxicology reports by closing time tonight."

* * *

At his brother's request, Sam was the one to dial the University Medical Center. Gradually, he worked his way from the front desk receptionist up the chain of administrators until he found the chief of the radiology department. With all the hold tones and transfer wait times, it took nearly thirty minutes. The hunters sat in the Impala, her front doors wide open to allow the faint August breeze to pass through. While Sam used his FBI status to bully his way from one caller to the next, Dean stared ahead blankly, lost in thought.

Finally, the chief of radiology picked up and reluctantly answered the FBI agent's questions. Yes, Dr. Harper had been working the night shift for the last five nights. No, he had not taken any time off following the death of his fiancée. No, the chief did not find that to be strange. Dr. Harper had always been incredibly dedicated to his work, and he found being home with nothing but his grief unbearable. No, Dr. Harper was not currently at the hospital. His shift had ended at nine. No, the chief had no idea where he might be. He recommended giving the doctor a few hours to sleep and then trying his cell phone.

The radiologist hung up with an impressively grumpy "Good day, Agent," that left Sam feeling as though he had just been scolded by his high school principal for missing too many classes – again.

"So, basically, we've got nothing beyond what we started out with this morning," groused Dean under his breath as Sam dropped his cell phone to his lap.

Sam loosened his tie and unbuttoned the second button on his white shirt. "Basically. God, it's hot. Can we turn on the air conditioner?"

His brother shook his head. "I'm not running down the battery, or wasting the gas."

"Dean, I'm suffocating. Aren't you?"

"I'm thinking."

"About?"

"Next steps."

"We can drop by the fiancé's place?" suggested Sam.

"Okay." Pulling the front driver's side door closed, Dean turned the key in the ignition. "Buckle up."

* * *

If she had to quantify her level of boredom, Faith would have ranked it a solid six. She and her burn blisters were back on babysitting duty, and she longed to hand in her resignation. Her skin was crawling, twitching with impatience to be doing something – anything – more active than sitting on a couch and watching Aricka work on medical school applications.

The research assistant's sheer unruffledness was beginning to bug the hell out of her. It wasn't natural, whined a voice somewhere inside her brain. Faith attempted to ignore the voice on principle. Whenever a layer of her subconsciousness spoke, it was always difficult to discern who was doing the talking.

Was it the core of ancient Slayer essence deep inside, the hunting darkness that lurked within, or simply her gut? Having spent years attempting to learn and implement self-control, Faith occasionally found it hard to trust her impulses. When she wasn't blindly following them into trouble, that is.

She was surprised to rediscover the power of boredom. It overwhelmed her, driving out the slight ache in her legs, begging and pleading for her to do something to relieve it. Giving in, the Slayer rose off the couch and began pacing the apartment. Aricka did not even glance up from her applications.

_Good_ , purred the desperate voice inside as her wanderings slowly brought her ever closer to the five Petri dishes still spread out on the kitchen table.  _Act_.

Ignoring the nasty odor of the cells, Faith lifted the lid off one of the Petri plates and studied the gloopy yellow-white colonies. Mucoid, Aricka had called them. Huh. She guessed it made sense. They did kinda look like snot.

"What kinds of cells did you say these are?" she wondered aloud, replacing the lid and moving to the next plate.

"Immortalised," replied Aricka as she typed like a dervish.

"Yeah, but I mean what are they?"

"Like where do they come from?"

The Slayer nodded. "Yeah."

"Some immortalised cell lines are human, and some are animal."

"I remember. You told me that. But what particular line are these?"

"Unngh." Regretfully, Aricka pulled herself away from her essay writing. "I think they're HeLa cells, actually. Human."

"How do you spell that?"

"Capital H, e, capital L, a. Why?"

Faith returned to the couch and lifted her hardy old laptop onto her knees. "I've got a theory."

* * *

**August 30th, 2006, Princeton, New Jersey, 12:15 p.m.**

"Hey, you got something for us?"

If the Lortab had not been wearing off, Faith would have smiled at the desperation in Dean's voice. He sounded about as stir-crazy as she felt. The Slayer propped her boots up on the coffee table. "More like a lack of something, but I thought you might find it interesting."

Wind whipped against the phone. "I'm putting you on speaker," explained Dean, his words now coming from a great distance. "Say hi to Sam."

Faith snickered. "Hi, Sam."

"Hey, Faith." Like his brother, Sam also sounded less than happy. "What's the word?"

"I had some questions about these cells –"

"The ones that wanted to win the county spelling bee?"

"Dean, let her talk."

"Yeah, questions. According to the internet, they can come from humans. So I had this thought – all of the supernatural things that Aricka noticed happened after Dr. Popescu started working with this particular cell line. What if it was the cells themselves that were possessed? What if the cells were what killed Dr. Popescu?"

"What, you mean they formed a giant gooey cell-monster and strangled her? They would have found residue on the body."

"Not if the cells were just the ghost's tether," mused Sam. "You know, like that painting in upstate New York."

The Slayer had no idea how, but she could hear Dean smirking. "You mean the one with the hot art dealer?"

"Dude. Not even relevant."

"What was her name again?"

"Sarah. But that's not the point." In an attempt to steer the conversation back to more comfortable waters, Sam said, "What did you find out?"

Faith exhaled in frustration into the phone. "I checked with Aricka, and they're HeLa cells, which, if Wikipedia is telling the truth, have been around since the 1950s. Originated from an African-American woman in Baltimore, name of Henrietta Lacks. She had cervical cancer."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I've been looking into it, but I can't find any records of strange deaths or violent accidents occurring in labs that worked with HeLa cells. And they're everywhere, guys. They used these to develop the polio vaccine back in fifty-four. Since then, they've been part of cancer research, AIDS research, radiation research, the list is endless. They're also super aggressive – more aggressive than your usual cancer cells, I guess. Apparently, somewhere between ten to twenty percent of cell lines used in research laboratories are contaminated with HeLa."

"They're like that killer algae," commented Dean.

"So you think that if the cells were possessed –"

Interrupting him, she said, "If HeLa cells were bad juju, there would be something on the internet somewhere. Someone would have written up about it – it would be too much of a fascinating story not to."

"But since there isn't – "

"I don't think it's the cells. Sorry, Dean. I was trying to see if we could rule out Belinda Cooper's ghost – or rule her in. Whichever came first."

A car door closed heavily, and the noise of the wind died away. Dean sighed. "It's fine. All signs are pointing to Cooper so far."

"There was one thing I was curious about . . ."

"Shoot."

"Is it possible for a ghost to manipulate another dead person's . . . stuff?"

"I don't see why not. Ghosts TK the living all the time, and they can do some really weird things to plants," reasoned Sam. "If you're asking if you think a ghost could have spelt words in human cell cultures, I think the answer is yes."

"That's gross."

"Yeah . . ." Dean's voice trailed away as he thought. "You know, there is one thing you could do to make sure it isn't the HeLa behind this . . ."

"I'm listening."

* * *

Her mind made up, the Vampire Slayer closed the flip phone and made her way into the kitchen. Aricka had stepped into the bathroom for a shower, which made now as good a time as any. Faith rifled through the cabinets until she found what she was looking for. Rising up onto her tip-toes, she took down a large aluminum platter from the top shelf. After she wrapped the platter in five layers of aluminum foil, the Slayer balanced the five Petri dishes and a container of iodized salt on the top. She carried the lot outside onto a small balcony off the main room. The better to avoid smoke detectors.

Faith crouched down, spreading the five plates out around the platter. She removed the lids and sprinkled the surfaces of the plates with a heavy layer of salt. For amusement's sake, she traced one letter in the salt on each plate: F-A-I-T-H. Then, the Slayer pulled two lighters out of her pockets. One, a disposable Bic, she broke open, dividing its lighter fluid contents evenly between the five plates. The other, her Zippo, she used to light a handful of matches all at once.

Dropping the fiery matches onto the Petri dishes, Faith watched the cell cultures go up in flames. She rested her hands on her knees, monitoring the flames suspiciously for anything out of the ordinary. Weird colors or letters in the fire, the appearance of a ghost – either Belinda Cooper or Henrietta Lacks – sudden cold spots, sulfur . . . She waited, her nose wrinkled in distaste, until the gel entirely burned away and the plastic of the plates themselves began to crack and glow a dull red.

Nothing happened. The balcony stank, like decomposing bodies or rotting mushrooms, but that had been the smell of the plates beforehand. Just not quite so striking. Resentfully, the Slayer breathed through her mouth while the plastic itself burned. At length, when only ashes remained, she folded up the aluminum foil into a tight bundle. She left the platter to cool on the concrete balcony. Returning inside, Faith dumped the ashes into the kitchen trashcan.

The shower was still running, and she could hear Aricka's voice rising and falling in an undecipherable murmur. Odd, that. She had been in for a long while.

"You ok?" The Slayer rapped on the bathroom door with her knuckles.

Aricka fell silent. "Yeah," she responded after half a minute. "Just got a message from the other professor I work for. He wants me to come in today, and he won't take no for an answer."

"That sucks."

"Yeah." The water stilled. "I was indulging in some cursing . . . makes me feel better. And . . ."

"Less likely to cuss him out to his face?"

The research assistant giggled. "Exactly." She hesitated, and Faith could hear the wet thwack of a towel hitting the floor. "I think I absolutely have to go in at some point today. You okay to come with?"

"Wherever you go, I go," drawled the Slayer easily. Stepping away from the bathroom door, she fumbled with her phone.

**To: 7855552575**  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 2:00 p.m.  
Message:

No joy

. . . .

**To: 2135556081**  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 2:03 p.m.  
Message:

Radio silence?

. . . .

**To: 7855552575**  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 2:07 p.m.  
Message:

Ouijia silence.

. . . .

**To: 2135556081**  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 2:10 p.m.  
Message:

Thnx

. . . .

* * *

Sam lowered the phone from his ear. "No luck," he informed his brother, hazel eyes darkening. "Sixth time he hasn't picked up."

"This Dr. Harper is harder to find than Waldo," groused Dean. He glanced out the car window at the narrow brownstone townhouse that they had been scoping out for the last hour.

The younger hunter shrugged. "Maybe he's finally dealing with his grief?"

"You really think that, Sam?"

"No. No, I don't. But I'm not sure what else to do right now . . . unless you want to break in and search the place?"

Dean growled. "Not yet. Not unless we have to. Did you try his parents?"

"He's a thirty-two-year-old doctor."

"So? Who'd you want to call when Jess died?"

"No one," glowered Sam. He really did not follow this line of questioning.

"And why was that?"

"Because . . . because you were already there."

"Ten points to Gryffindor. Someone you love dies, you call the other people you love. So see if you can find his parents, give them a call. We're done playing Columbo here."

As Dean shifted the car into drive and pulled away from the curb, Sam began to make phone calls. He tried Detective Pearson first and then the hospital administrator again, with little luck. Dr. Harper's emergency contact at the hospital had been his fiancée, Mariana Popescu. He announced this with great frustration as his brother made the final turn onto a quiet road.

"Where are we?" Sam demanded, too caught up in irritation to bother reading street signs.

Dean raised one eyebrow in derision and pointed out the window. "Dude."

Blinking, Sam paid attention. "Oh."

"Yeah." Rolling his eyes at his little brother's obliviousness, the hunter popped the trunk on the Impala and yanked out his duffel. Sam followed suit. The two men strolled easily through the cemetery, looking far more respectable than they usually did. In search of Belinda Cooper's final resting place, they wandered down the carefully paved asphalt paths with nary a crack in them. Along the way, Sam kept stopping to point out the graves of famous men from American history.

"Dean – look – that's Aaron Burr!"

"Who?"

"You know – he was a Revolutionary War hero – and he killed Alexander Hamilton in a duel."

"I repeat – who?"

"He shot the guy on the ten dollar bill, Dean."

"Oh." Dean regarded his younger brother with fond exasperation. "You are such a nerd."

"We both learned that in high school."

Dean shrugged. He had forgotten more than he ever learned in high school. "Well, yeah, but how do you remember that much detail?"

"I was studying history at Stanford, Dean."

Although the concrete paths stayed perfectly still, the ground shifted uncomfortably beneath Dean's feet. "I thought you were pre-law?"

Sam glanced at his brother pityingly. Once again, it reinforced the feeling that even though they lived out of the same car, sometimes they were worlds apart. "Pre-law isn't actually a major," he said gently.

"Oh." And the next time Sam stopped to gawk at a headstone (this one belonging to Grover Cleveland), Dean didn't say anything at all.

Eventually, they found Belinda Cooper's grave, marked by a humble charcoal granite tombstone. Her full name, birth, and death dates were carved two inches deep into the dark stone, along with the epitaph "Beloved daughter, Compassionate friend." While Sam examined the grave, his brother walked up to the six-foot black iron fence. He tested the top rung with his hand under the guise of inspecting the delicate ivory that wound its way up the fence post.

Dean casually cast his eyes around their secluded corner of the cemetery. No cameras, no electric wires running along the top of the fence. It would be easy as pie to hop the wall tonight and do a little grave desecration. Shouldn't take much more than an hour, if they brought Faith and worked quick.

"Nothing unusual," he said in an undertone, moving back towards his brother.

"Couple hours after sundown?" queried Sam as he eyed the ground surrounding the headstone. Even with the recent lack of rain, the earth was soft beneath his black dress shoes.

"Sounds about right. C'mon. Let's try Harper again."

They quit the cemetery, still pausing every couple hundred yards whenever Sam spotted a name or headstone that reminded him of something. Dean put up with the dawdling – he already felt bad enough about bringing up Stanford, and Jess, and the girl from New York today. Damn, but he was on a roll, and not the good kind.

The brothers were passing through the ornate wrought-iron front gate when Dean's phone started ringing. He answered it automatically, "Agent Young."

"Hey, Agent. This is Detective Pearson down at the station. I've got some news you might be interested in."

"Hi. The fire chief finish up?"

"No, not quite yet. The toxicology report did come through, though."

"Yeah? Doc McNeil find anything?"

The detective snorted into the receiver. "You could say that. She found barbiturates in the blood – phenobarbital, to be specific. Dr. Popescu had enough sedatives in her system to down a racehorse."

"Was it ingested?" Dean asked hopefully, his mind racing. He mouthed 'phenobarbital' to Sam and watched his little brother's eyes widen.

"No. Nothing in the stomach other than coffee and oatmeal. The doc took another look, seeing if she could find any needle marks. There was a puncture wound at the base of Dr. Popescu's hairline. Looks like the barbiturate was injected, and then her neck was broken, once she couldn't protect herself."

The sour feeling pooling in the base of the hunter's gut multiplied. "Thanks, detective. Anything else?"

Papers were shuffled on the other end of the phone. "I talked to security again, asked if there were any buildings that connected to Dr. Popescu's. They're reviewing the maps of the heating tunnels now. Someone got in somehow, and we'll find them. You two have any luck with the fiancé?"

"Can't raise him."

"Figures. I'll put out a BOLO for the good doc and his car."

"Thank you. We're on our way back now. See you in a few."

Dean hung up the phone and shoved it deep into the pockets of his suit jacket. "It's not a ghost, Sam."

"You think ghosts don't use drugs?"

"Not if they're planning on breaking your neck."

Sam paused, his fingers curling around the shotgun door handle. "So . . . what did we miss?"

"Everything." Glowering, Dean slid behind the wheel. "Call Faith. She needs to know. Ask her to bring Aricka, meet us at the station."

"All right." Sam borrowed his brother's phone and looked up the number. He waited while the call dialed out. It rang twice and then went straight to voicemail. "Dean . . . "

"Call again."

He dialed the number twice more. Both times, no one picked up. "She's not answering."

His brother scowled and slammed his hand against the steering wheel, the beginnings of fear in his green eyes. "Sh-t. Faith, where are you?"

* * *

Faith watched with mild distaste as Aricka fed the mice in her lab. It wasn't the mice so much that freaked her out, although the skittering and scritch-scratch of their little clawed feet across the metal of their cages was a hair unnerving. Simply put, the Slayer didn't much like the concept of animal research. While understanding its purpose, she didn't like the thought of anything in a cage.

After fifteen minutes of squeaking and scurrying, she excused herself to the bathroom. Faith wandered the empty halls of the research building. The animal subjects were kept in the basement, and even at four in the afternoon on a Wednesday, this floor was deserted.

Ignoring the potential creepiness of the situation, she found the restroom and washed her hands and face thoroughly. She delayed her return, hesitant to be back in the room with the mice, each snuffle and snort making her feel uncomfortable amounts of sympathy for something probably not even capable of cogent thought.

Her conscience got the better of her, however, and Faith could only linger in the bathroom for ten minutes before heading back to the lab. She was in charge of protecting Aricka, and she could not do that hiding out in the ladies' room. The Slayer moved quietly through the desolate hallways. Behind every closed door, some sort of animal hooted or moaned, squeaked or chirped, and the noise made her hair stand on end. This was a thousand times worse than any zoo could ever be.

She heard the mumbles of voices as she approached Aricka's lab. It was probably just her boss. Relaxing her lats, Faith tried to walk a little more like a student and a little less like a predator. More fumbling, less stalking. The Slayer prepared to trip over her own feet in a show of clumsiness. If it was necessary, she could do it.

Pushing open the lab door, Faith walked in to find Aricka staring at her. The research assistant looked different, somehow. Her eyes were wide and wild, and she stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, a single gray mouse clutched tightly in her right hand.

"Where did you wander off to?" she asked, a tense humming in her voice that had not been there before.

Faith stepped further into the room and closed the door behind her. "Bathroom. You about finished up?"

"Almost. There's just . . . One. More. Thing."

Aricka's eyes flashed to the right, giving her away. The Slayer leapt backwards, away from those claw-like hands that had just held a mouse and were now holding a pistol. Her pistol. Her Smith & Wesson. Faith sprinted for the door. It was a mere two steps away. She could make it.

She would have made it, but as Faith turned, her way was suddenly blocked by a tall man, his skin fiercely pale. His eyes gleamed blue and mad in the dark light of the laboratory room. "Not so fast," he hissed. He moved, fast as lightning, stabbing the syringe in his hand into the side of Faith's neck.

The Slayer felt a sharp pain, and her limbs refused to obey her. And then she tumbled to the floor, slamming her head onto the concrete floor. After that, Faith felt nothing at all.

 


	45. Dance, Monkey, Dance! pt 7

* * *

**August 30th, 2006, Princeton, New Jersey, 4:30 p.m.**

The brakes on the Chevy Impala squealed as the car screeched to a halt outside the Princeton police station. The agents ran into the building and pushed past the desk sergeant without so much as a by your leave. They found Detective Pearson at his desk in the bull pen.

"We need to run a GPS trace on a phone number," said Dean abruptly, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. A vein pulsed angrily along his jaw.

"What's the number?"

"Two, one, three, five, five, five, eight, zero, six, one."

Pearson typed in the number with his index fingers. While they waited for the computer to connect with the satellite, he looked up into the tense faces of the FBI agents. "Everything all right?"

"We can't reach the fiancé or the witness who discovered the body on the phone. Or Hope Lyonne, the woman who was at the fire yesterday," explained Sam.

The detective frowned slightly. "You think she's involved in this?"

"Let's call it a gut feeling." Dean leaned over Pearson's shoulder to peer at the computer, which pinged as the search results finished.

"Last known location is smack in the middle of the research campus, half an hour ago. Princeton Neuroscience Institute," observed Pearson. "But the phone's off now."

Sam rattled off two others numbers, belonging to Aricka and Dr. Harper. They had both been turned off, as well, with Aricka's last location matching Faith's.

"Frak," growled Dean, low in his throat. Straightening up, he ran a hand through his hair. "You find out anything about a second entry into Dr. Popescu's laboratory?"

Still frowning, the detective reached for a thin yellow folder on the left side of the computer monitor. "Here." He opened the folder to reveal a map of campus, with several structures highlighted in yellow. "The murderer could have taken the underground heating tunnels from any of these buildings to Dr. Popescu's lab. As long as they had a valid university ID, they would have had access. I've got some of the junior officers running the security tapes now and getting access to the ID-logs. Should have those in the next hour."

"Right. We'll head over to campus, see if we can find the witnesses."

Detective Pearson tilted his head to one side. "You really do think something serious is going on."

"Like I said – got a feeling in my gut."

* * *

The instant they were outdoors, Sam pulled his phone out of his suit jacket and began dialing a number. He waited for the person on the other end to pick up while they hopped back in the Impala and his brother started the engine.

"Hello?" The woman who answered the phone sounded congested, her voice muffled.

"Becky?"

"Sam?"

"Yeah. How are you?"

"I'm . . . good. Fighting off a summer cold, but good. Did you want to talk to Zack?"

Mindful of Dean next to him, who was twirling one finger in a 'speed it up' signal, Sam pressed on. "No, actually, I wanted to talk to you."

"O-kay." Rebecca Warren drew out the word. "What's up?"

"I'm working a job in Princeton, New Jersey. We got called in by a friend of yours – Aricka Spencer. She said she talked to you a week or so ago, and you gave her the number?"

Rebecca paused a moment before answering. "That's right. Only it was more like last month. She had some story about how all the women in her research lab were having accidents, especially the ones who were married or engaged. I thought it was all very outlandish, but in case it was true, I passed along your number. Told her to call before things got more serious."

"So it was your idea to tell her about us?"

"Actually, now that you mention it, Aricka was the one who asked for your contact information. She remembered me mentioning something about the unpleasantness with Zack last year, and she had quite a few questions. She kept asking me about how the police discovered he was innocent. I'll admit, it was fairly late at night, and I had already had two glasses of wine. I porbably disclosed more than I otherwise would have. Is everything all right, Sam?"

"Yeah, we're just sorting some things out."

"Huh. Well, the housekeeper walked in the door a second ago. I've got to dash. Take care of yourself, okay?"

"You got it, Becky."

Closing the phone, Sam relayed the conversation to his brother, whose face grew more and more closed off as Sam reached the punchline. "So whether innocent or not, we now know that Aricka lied to us. Hard to confuse a month ago with last week. Also, she said that Becky called her out of nowhere, when clearly Aricka was seeking information out about us."

Dean frowned. "Not exactly fantastic news, Sammy." He cut across two lines of traffic to make a left turn, ignoring the stream of angry honks left in his wake.

Sam swallowed. "You think there was ever any ghost activity to begin with?"

His older brother lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Dunno. There seemed to be some EMF activity around those plates, but maybe it was the transformer on the power line twenty yards from the balcony. And now that I think of it, none of the other research people mentioned noticing anything odd, besides the freezer door getting stuck, and the water being too hot. Both of which are easily faked. And she could have triggered the lab fire herself. Don't they have gas turn-ons in all those buildings?"

"So why would she call us in, then?"

Frown deepening, Dean pulled into a university parking lot. He checked the magazine on his Colt M1911A1 and replaced the pistol in its holster on his right hip. "We're gonna find out. And something tells me we're not going to like it."

* * *

Faith's mind swam slowly back to consciousness. The first sensation to register in her muddled thoughts was the not-unfamiliar pinch of a zip-tie around her wrists. Keeping her eyes closed and the lids relaxed, the Slayer assessed the situation. She was seated in a lightweight folding chair, her arms draped around the sides and pinioned together at the back, her ankles each secured to one of the chair legs. Faith gave the zip-tie at her wrists an experimental tug. The plastic was tight against her skin, tighter than it needed to be.

Zip-ties meant forethought. And with her legs restrained, there was no way for the Slayer to reach the knife in her boot. Dammit to hell. She tried to wiggle her left ankle, but the ties held there, too. To make matters worse, whoever had tied her up had done so with no regard for her burns, and Faith did not dare risk drawing her captors' attention by fidgeting.

It was the muttering that had roused her, and she silenced her thoughts in order to listen better. Aricka and Creepenstein were arguing, trying and failing to keep their voices down. Beneath the sound of human voices, however, there was something else. Something high-pitched, a squeaky, chittering noise that definitely was not mice. Her gut clenched

"I don't like being rushed into this," complained a female voice. Faith could barely recognize it as belonging to Aricka – the range was about the same, but the timbre was entirely altered, her calm replaced by passion.

The man scoffed. "We waited three days. I think that's long enough, don't you?"

Footsteps moved closer together across the concrete floor. Faith listened to the soft, sucking sounds of lips pressing against each other and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Convinced of her captors' preoccupation, the Slayer twisted her wrists a little more violently until she managed to catch the zip-tie on a rough metal edge at the back of the chair. Sloughed skin now would be a small price to pay compared with whatever the WonderCouple had planned for her. Dean's description of the autopsy had been thoroughly chilling.

After a noise like a plunger, Aricka's frustration resumed. "Do you think she's awake?"

Someone approached her. Faith struggled to breathe deeply. They had hit her with some kind of tranquilizer. As much as she hated this self-imposed blindness, it was better for them not to know that she was conscious. A cool palm touched the side of her face briefly and then trailed down her neck to her collarbone. The Slayer did not react.

"Still out. I gave her as much as I gave Mariana. She won't be coming around for a while. Did you get the prints?"

"Removed them off of the water glasses from dinner last night."

"That's my girl."

"You still think the cops'll buy it? I didn't get a chance to plant any in the lab before…"

"We do her right, and they won't have a choice."

There was a pause and the ominous snap of latex gloves. "Karl, I'm not getting cold feet here, but what if they do? Figure it out, I mean?"

"Honey, your plan is brilliant. Always has been. By the time they work out Dean Winchester being back from the dead and returned to his serial-killing ways, they won't know which way to turn. We'll leave town – you go to your parents' place, I'll go to California. In a few months, everything will be back to normal, and we'll be back at Princeton."

"I love you."

"I know. Now, let's get started before those homicidal redneck psychopaths begin looking for their girlfriend."

Imperceptibly slow, Faith allowed her head to tilt forward until her face was masked by a curtain of hair. While Aricka and her lover continued to confer in quiet voices, she opened her eyes a fraction. They had moved her to another lab room, this one filled with large animal cages. Cats, rabbits, and monkeys gazed down at her with dark, liquid eyes.

Creepenstein stood roughly ten feet away, his hands clad up to the elbows in thick white latex gloves. Similarly gloved, Aricka was using forceps to peel away small ovals of some kind of transparent gelatin off a sheet of wax paper. She carefully pressed each of the ovals onto one of the man's fingers. On a lab bench next to the pair lay Faith's revolver and a large, sharply serrated steel knife. The Slayer moved her wrists against the chair a little faster.

"There." The final fingerprint applied, Aricka stepped backwards. "All finished."

"Perfect." Karl turned towards Faith, his upper lip retracting to reveal an impressive set of white teeth. "You know, I think we've been going about this all wrong," he said conversationally.

"We have?"

"Yeah." The man reached behind him and lifted the knife away from the bench, clasping it momentarily by his fingertips to leave prints. "This whole posthumous disembowelment thing. Seems a little tame for Dean Winchester." He began edging in the Slayer's direction.

"You have another idea?"

"Wouldn't it be better if we did it while she was alive? More . . . true to form?" He was just beyond arms' length, and Faith could hear her pulse racing in her ears. It had been a while since she had the odds stacked against her quite like this.

Aricka frowned peevishly. "I don't care, Karl. Just handle it."

Now. The Slayer launched herself to her feet, whirling to send her shoulder and the side of the chair slamming into the man's stomach. With a gasp, all the air was expelled from his lungs. The knife clattered to the ground. Faith took advantage of her captors' surprise and distraction to drop down onto her back, her fingers closing around the hilt of the knife. She turned it hastily in her hands, mindless of the blade scraping along her skin, and sawed through the zip-tie. Two limbs freed, Faith cut her ankles loose.

Just in time. Creepenstein was staggering forward, his hands outstretched for her throat. Bad move. The Slayer gripped the folding chair by its legs and smashed it across his face. Creepenstein went down like a stone, and stayed there.

The beast inside roared with pleasure. Faith ignored it; she had business with Aricka. "You're going to talk," she said calmly as the chair fell, abandoned, to the floor. "Were you planning on framing someone else for your dirty work the whole time, or was it just a pleasant afterthought?"

"How are you even moving?" demanded the research assistant in shock, her hand scrabbling across the lab bench until it closed over Faith's Smith & Wesson. She swiveled and pointed the barrel directly at the other woman's chest.

Faith paused momentarily, calculating. The revolver only had silver bullets, but a hole through her heart would do enough damage, regardless of what metal caused it.

"I'll shoot," Aricka warned. "Put down the knife."

"I don't think so."

The Slayer dove forward, her free hand landing on the revolver. She jerked it to the side just as Aricka pulled the trigger. The bullet grazed the lateral aspect of Faith's right thigh, and the acrid scent of copper and blood pervaded the air. Staggering, she ripped the revolver free of Aricka's grasp and shoved it into the waistband of her jeans while the research assistant backed away until her back collided with the cages. "That wasn't very nice."

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god." Aricka fumbled at the latches of the cage behind her. "What the hell are you?"

Eyes half-glazed over with pain, Faith did not wait for Aricka to enact her next crazy strategy. She had no desire to go head to head with the large macaque monkey screaming angrily as his cage door rattled. The gunshot had set off all the animals in the room, and the cacophony of mews, hisses, screeches, and rabbit squeals echoed against the walls, increasing the hullabaloo exponentially.

Lashing out with her fist, she caught the younger woman on the chin, sending her head crashing into the cage door behind her. Faith knocked Aricka to the ground and grabbed her neck in a chokehold. As soon as the girl's eyes rolled back in her head, she released her. "I'm a Vampire Slayer, you bitch."

Gingerly, she forced herself back to her feet. Blood dripped in a sluggish trickle from the bullet scrape on her leg. "I hate people," the Slayer mumbled. She pushed her sweaty hair out of her face. Whatever they had dosed her with, it was still in her system. Now, without the adrenaline of fighting for her life as a distraction, dizziness rushed her body.

"I should sit down," Faith continued talking to herself. Regardless, she withdrew her revolver and opened the chamber to count the number of bullets. She still had five shots. "Where's my phone?"

Keeping one eye on the unconscious duo, the woman stumbled about the small lab room in search of her wallet and phone. She found them further down on one of the lab benches. The phone had been smashed completely, its screen nothing more than a few shards of plastic. Faith allowed the mobile to fall from her hands. "Dammit."

The Slayer used Creepenstein's knife to slice the bottom six inches off of her t-shirt. Holding the hilt between her teeth, she tied the makeshift bandage around her thigh to control the bleeding. She needed to get moving before the happy couple woke up, but she wasn't sure where to go or where the closest phone would be.

Paranoia was creeping in, cheerfully reminding her of what would happen if the police found her like this. She had no illusions about the content of Aricka or her boyfriend's testimony. They would happily send her away for life, and, of course, they were far more believable than she. And yet somehow, mustering the energy to move was an impossibly Herculean feat.

She was standing there still, the Smith & Wesson dangling limply in one hand, blood-spattered knife in the other, research animals howling and whining all around her, when the door crashed back on its hinges ten minutes later, and two men in suits burst in, guns drawn.

"'Bout time, boys. I was starting to think you'd gotten caught up in traffic."

Dean's gaze swept the room. He turned Creepenstein over with a foot. "Well, well, well. Sam, I think we found the missing Dr. Harper." The hunter looked back to Faith, taking in the blood on her thigh. "You okay?"

The Slayer nodded. "Bullet grazed me. It didn't hit an artery. We can clean it up later. How'd you find me?"

"GPS in your phone, then followed the panicking animals." Sam withdrew a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "Dean, you want to interrogate these two?"

"Forget that. We need to leave," Faith insisted before he could reply.

"What? Why?"

"Look." She lifted one of Dr. Harper's hands and pointed out the barely visible fingerprints glued to the outside of the gloves. "They're yours, Dean. They were trying to frame you for both murders."

"Both –"

"Dr. Popescu's and mine. They didn't realize I could hear them," she said in response to Sam's inquisitive look.

"You're right. We've got to get out of here."

"Dean – "

The hunter bent down to remove Dr. Harper's gloves, careful not to touch the other man's skin with the pads of his fingers. "Can it, Sam. These two come around, tell their story with us still here, we're in deep sh-t. Our fingerprints are all over Aricka's apartment."

"But they'll walk."

Faith shook her head. "Not if we can help it." Using what remained of her t-shirt, she wiped her prints from the knife and pressed it into Aricka's grip. "We make this look like a lover's quarrel, call the police station anonymously . . ."

"And get the hell out of town," Dean finished for her.

Still unconvinced, Sam pressed, "What if they wake up?"

"That's why we call Pearson now, and wait for the sirens before doing a runner." Dean shoved the incriminating gloves into his pockets. "I'll step out and call him, you two clean this place up of anything that points to us, make sure TweedleDie and TweedleMurder stay sleeping. We'll meet at the car in ten." After a beat's silence, he added, "Just don't get caught."

* * *

**August 30th, 2006, Manns Choice, Pennsylvania, 11:00 p.m.**

"When I get loose, I am going to frakking kill you," groaned Faith as straight hydrogen peroxide was poured across the surface of her bullet wound. "I swear to G-d. Your ass is grass." Her fingers dug into the fiberglass side of the bathtub, and she leaned her head back against the wall.

"Just be glad it isn't iodine." Dean was oblivious to her ill-temper. He capped the peroxide bottle and irrigated the wound out with water, going over it gently with a soapy washcloth. While the Slayer muttered profanities, he smothered the graze in a triple-strength antibiotic ointment and bandaged it up with gauze and tape. "Or salt."

Faith winced. "Oh, g-d. Okay, you're right. That would be worse."

"Uh huh." The hunter extended a hand and pulled her to her feet. "And while we're on the subject of being pissed at people, I haven't had the chance to ask you yet, so here goes – what the hell were you thinking?"

"Geez, Dean. How was I supposed to know Aricka was the killer?" An attempt to step out of the tub resulted in Faith almost tripping and bashing her nose into the toilet. She clutched at Dean with spastic fingers. "I think I might've overdone it today. Just a bit."

Dean resisted the urge to snort at her. He held her arm steady while the Slayer stepped into her baggy sweat pants and pulled them up past her hips. When he spoke, it came out more amused than critical. "You think?"

"Maybe."

"Here." Wrapping one arm around her waist and the other beneath her knees, the hunter lifted her easily. "It's time for the Little Slayer that Could to go to sleep." He carried Faith into the motel bedroom and deposited her on the queen-sized bed closest to the air conditioner. After yanking the comforter up to her chin, he retrieved the television remote and turned it on to some mindless crime procedural. "Got it?"

"Got it." Faith rolled onto her side. Wrapping her arms around a spare pillow, she hugged it to her chest. "Where's Sam?"

"Sitting out in the car, listening to the police scanner. Waiting to see if we need to get moving again."

The bed dipped on the other side of the mattress as Dean sat down. Leaning against the headboard, he flicked through the channels until he caught a late-night news report with pictures of Dr. Harper and Aricka. The foot of text at the bottom of the screen read, "Couple arrested in connection with murder of research professor."

Dean sighed. "I'll say it again. Demons, I get. People are crazy."

Faith chuckled drowsily. "You just now figuring that out?" A callused hand ruffled her hair. "Hey, watch it. Just 'cuz I'm minorly incapacitated at the moment does not mean you can go about treating me like a damsel in distress."

The hunter responded with a laugh of his own. "Oh, I know. This is just payback."

"For?"

"The snakebite incident. You should be grateful I haven't taken you to the hospital."

Abandoning her pillow, she struggled upright into a sitting position and fixed him with a baleful glare. "Not a good idea. And anyway, you passed out from blood loss – didn't give me much of a choice." He grinned widely, and Faith realized she was being teased. Groaning, she chucked a pillow at him. "You are the worst, Dean Winchester."

Still grinning, Dean handed the pillow back. "All part of my charm."

"Whatever." Faith fluffed the pillow and tucked it beneath her head. "I'm going to sleep."

"Not stopping you."

"Mmmerrrph." The Slayer mumbled something unintelligible. Blinking heavily, she turned onto her side and, within moments, fell asleep.

* * *

**August 31, 2006, Cleveland, Ohio, 12:25 p.m.**

The drive back to Ohio crawled by sluggishly. Princeton had left a nasty taste in all of their mouths, and no one wanted to talk about it. Every hour or so, Dean scanned through the radio, listening for news broadcasts. Sam hacked into the police department's files when they stopped for breakfast at a diner with wifi. Even with the air conditioner at full blast, the air was heavy with things left unsaid.

Finally, they arrived at Faith's apartment building. Sam remained in the car while his brother got out to help the Slayer with her bags. She grimaced as she stepped out of the car, using the doorframe to push herself upright. "I've got to get a new phone," she grumbled under her breath. "Probably today, if I don't want Giles to freak out . . ."

Dean passed over her backpack. "Don't you ever just want to say screw it?"

Slipping her arms through the straps, the Slayer raised her eyebrows. "What – 'hang the code and hang the rules'?"

"Yeah."

Faith smiled. "Every damn day."

"Why don't you?"

She looked down at the ground. "Because I owe Giles. I'm a Slayer. It's my job. I have to save people."

"You could do that with us." Dean's voice was a masterclass in studied nonchalance.

Brown eyes met green with wry amusement. "That a proposal?"

He backed her up against the warm metal curve of the car, his hands braced on the window glass on either side of her hips. Dean leaned in, crowding her body with his. "It's an open invitation," he said casually. "You can see it how you want."

The Slayer's smile widened. "Tempting. If wishes were horses . . ."

"I'd win the Kentucky Derby."

"One of us would."

Dean moved away. "So that's a no?"

Reluctantly, Faith picked up her duffel bag. "It's a not right now," she said gently, reading the disappointment in his eyes.

The hunter blinked, hiding his melancholy once more behind a half-smile. "Hug for the road?" he joked and opened his arms.

Faith stepped into his embrace. Eyes closed, she rested her forehead on his collarbone as his arms wrapped around her, sliding beneath the backpack to pull her into him. A rush of words clawed their jagged way up her throat, crowding her tongue, but she ignored them. There would be other days, other times to talk. For the moment, she was content with silence.

 


	46. Hey You, pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title credits go to Pink Floyd, and song credits go to Journey. Supernatural episodes referenced in this chapter are "No Exit" and "Playthings." The BTVS Season 8 arcs mentioned for the next 5-6 chapters or so are "Twilight" and "Last Gleaming."

* * *

**September 24** **th** **, 2006**

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 12:45 a.m.  
** **Message:**

Hey. Lily wants to know if you and Sam are coming out for her musical this weekend. She's playing Adelaide in Guys and Dolls.

. . . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 12:51 a.m.  
** **Message:**

Not a snowball's chance in Hell, sorry. Got caught up on this case in Philadelphia. I could send you the details?

. . . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 12:53 a.m.  
** **Message:**

You and Sam working it alone?

. . . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 12:55 a.m.  
** **Message:**

Us and a hunter called Jo. She's pretty green, but her instincts aren't bad.

. . . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 12:58 a.m.  
** **Message:**

And to think that some people call you a chauvinist . . . you sleeping on the couch, then?

. . . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 1:03 a.m.  
** **Message:**

How'd you guess?

. . . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 1:07 a.m.  
** **Message:**

It's one in the morning, and you're texting me back about a musical.

. . . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 1:11 a.m.  
** **Message:**

Touché.

. . . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 1:15 a.m.  
** **Message:**

So . . . you and Jo not hitting it off?

. . . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 1:18 a.m.  
** **Message:**

She thinks I don't respect her because she's a girl. Which is stupid. I mean, look at you and the Brat Pack. I told her I don't respect her because she's a amateur and could get someone hurt. Don't know why I bothered – she's still pissed at me.

. . . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 1:19 a.m.  
** **Message:**

How long're you in the States for?

. . . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 1:23 a.m.  
** **Message:**

Thought I told you last week - at least for the next month or so. Giles is coming out here with a trouble Slayer, which means I get to be on talk-the-crazy-girl-away-from-the-cliff duty.

. . . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 1:25 a.m.  
** **Message:**

Good thing you've had so much practice.

. . . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 1:30 a.m.  
** **Message:**

I'm gonna do us both a favor and not read into that. Good night, Dean.

. . . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 1:32 a.m.  
** **Message:**

Night.

. . . .

* * *

**September 26** **th** **, 2006**

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 3:00 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Hey. Want to swing through Cleveland after you wrap up in Pennsylvania? I can get the co-eds to distract your brother for a couple of hours while we have some fun.

. . . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 3:25 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Can't. Driving Jo and her mom back to Nebraska. Let's just say this case . . . escalated a bit.

. . . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 3:40 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Damn. That sucks.

. . . .

**To: 213555608  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 3:45 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Yeah. Raincheck?

. . . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 3:56 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Anytime.

. . . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 4:01 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Great. I'll just get this weird rash cleared away, first.

. . . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 4:30 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Kidding. No weird rashes. Or un-weird rashes.

. . . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 4:45 p.m.  
** **Message:**

I don't have any rashes, okay?

. . . .

**To: 2135556081  
** **From: 7855552575  
** **Time: 4:55 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Faith?

. . . .

**To: 7855552575  
** **From: 2135556081  
** **Time: 5:00 p.m.  
** **Message:**

Yeah . . . I don't do rashes.

. . . .

* * *

**December 18** **th** **, 2006 Cleveland, Ohio, 7:00 p.m.**

Faith stepped into her darkened apartment and flicked on the overhead light switch. Tugging the door closed behind her, she dropped her heavy duffel onto the linoleum entryway and kicked off her boots. She was starving and exhausted. Faith's bones ached, but before she could do anything else, she locked the triple dead bolt on the inside of the door. Just in case something had followed her home.

The Slayer left a trail of clothes between the front door and the bathroom, refusing to even think until she was standing beneath a stream of scalding hot water, scrubbing away grime that only she could see. It had been a hell of a long couple of months, jetting all across the country, tracking down newly turned Slayers and helping them find inner peace before they went all Here's Johnny on the people who had abused them. She'd had the dubious honor of spending her birthday in the hold of a cargo ship with Spike, who had managed to get himself in trouble with a government agency – again – and had to be smuggled across international lines.

She stayed under the water until it ran cold, and then the Slayer raced across her hallway to find some winter-appropriate things in her closet. Clad in sweatpants, a faded Ohio State hoodie that belonged to Becka, and a pair of worn slippers, Faith meandered back to the front hall. She threw her old clothes and the contents of the duffel into the washing machine and started it.

Only then did the Slayer give her apartment the once-over. Lily and Becka had been on house-sitting duty, again, which mostly meant that they crashed at her place when their roommates' boyfriends spent the night, and occasionally they threw parties there during campus quiet-hours when their dorm was off-limits. Faith didn't much care. As long as the place was clean, the heater was on, and the pipes hadn't frozen by the time she got back, they could do whatever they liked.

After checking that all of the windows were closed and locked, Faith booted up her laptop. She needed to email Giles and update him on the Spike situation. Wandering into the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator door. Bless their souls, the Slayerettes had left her a six-pack of Stella Artois as well as a freezer full of Hot Pockets, pizza rolls, ice cream, and cookie dough. Food full of fats and sugars and bad, bad cholesterol. Exactly what she needed.

While she waited for the microwave to work its magic, Faith noticed a small pile of mail on the kitchen table. She flicked through it, barely paying attention. There were a few utility bills at the front, their tops neatly slit open, complete with post-it notes in Lily's handwriting marking them as 'paid.' Near the end of the stack was a birthday card from both girls and a thick, manilla envelope.

Leaving the birthday card for later, the Slayer grabbed a paring knife out of the silverware drawer and cut open the envelope. She reached inside, and her fingers brushed thick photo paper. Curious, Faith tipped the envelope upside down on the kitchen table. Three photos and a crumpled receipt fell out. Faith turned the photos over one by one and stared at them. It felt like someone had just kidney-punched her in the stomach.

The first picture was blurred and hazy, as though it had been taken through smoke. Which, if she remembered correctly, it had. A smoldering campfire loomed in the immediate foreground, but it was not the focus of the picture. Instead, the photo centered on a two people sitting cross-legged on the far side of the fire, leaning against each other, a dog splotched with brown and white sprawled across both their laps.

Faith looked away from the dog, her eyes going to the couple. In line with their cover, Dean had his arm around her waist, and they were laughing across the fire at whoever was taking the picture.  _Eliza_ , her brain supplied. Right. She moved on to the next photo.

This one was less painful. It was a close-up shot, probably taken by one of the twins. Faith and Dean were standing by the Impala, resting their boots against the fenders, smirking at the photographer. Carefully reviewing the picture, Faith could barely make out the lines of a stake against the ankle of her dark green fatigues.

 _God, we looked younger then._ The thought passed fleetingly through her head, and then Faith reluctantly confronted the final picture.

Dean had played paparazzo on this one. It had been taken just after dawn, and rosy streaks of light danced through the image. She was sleeping in that indestructible army mummy bag, Buddy curled up against her chest, his pink tongue dangling out across her hand. Faith turned the photo over quickly. A year had passed, and it still hurt.

She reached for the crumpled-up receipt and smoothed it out. Over the faded gas total from Uncle Willie's, someone had written in heavy black ink:  _Found these on my phone. Thought you should have a copy. Happy Birthday. –Dean_

The microwave dinged, recalling her back to the present. Faith gathered up the photos and returned them to their envelope. Maybe later, she would find somewhere to store them. Get a couple of cheap picture frames and put them up on one of the bookshelves or something. Right now, there was a Philly cheesesteak Hot Pocket calling her name.

In the minute it took for the Hot Pocket to cool, the Slayer acted on impulse and dialed a phone number. She'd been out of communication for the last few weeks, and the last she'd heard, Dean was inches from telling his latest big secret to his little brother.

He picked up on the fourth ring, his voice low, hoarse, and exhausted. It was the best sound she'd heard in a month. "Hello?"

"Thank you."

Dean knew what she meant without her having to specify. "It's okay?"

The Slayer swallowed thickly. "More than okay."

* * *

**January 10** **th** **, 2007 Los Angeles, California, 9:00 p.m.**

"You really do have the nicest office," observed the Vampire Slayer, reclining backwards in Angel's giant leather chair. She crossed her ankles on the mahogany desk, distinctly unladylike and loving every minute of it. "How're things going with Wolfram & Hart anyway?"

The brunette vampire with a soul shrugged and jerked his irreplaceable paperwork out from under Faith's work boots. "They're going fine," he replied, skimming through the documents. "The Senior Partners believe that all is forgiven and forgotten. They think that I've lost my faith in the world and am back to playing their pawn."

"But they're wrong," commented Faith, her eyes narrowing. When Angel did not immediately answer, she repeated, "They're wrong, right?"

Angel signed his name to a contract in flawless calligraphy. "What? Oh, yeah, they are completely and totally wrong. How's Spike?" he asked as an afterthought. "You get him out of that tangle in Panama okay?"

"Never again," Faith groaned, and she tilted the chair as far backwards as it would go. "Never again am I goin' steerage on some tanker. I was puking for days. Next time, I'm just getting him some sort of mystical submarine."

"Spike would love that," observed Angel wryly. "You probably wouldn't even have to find him one. Just mention the idea, and he'll find one all on his own."

"Huh. You've got a point."

Silence fell as the vampire completed his paperwork. After ten minutes of boredom, Faith pulled an easy translation of Voltaire's  _Candide_ out of her bag and turned the page to her bookmark. It was a reading assignment from her latest online class, and thus far she had been surprised by how much she liked it. Besides, she kind of enjoyed this companionable quiet, mostly since it was so rare for the two of them to ever spend time with one another that wasn't crisis-related.

Faith was just getting drawn into Candide's adventures in El Dorado when her phone rang, its heavy metal ringtone shattering the peaceful atmosphere. To her everlasting delight, Angel jumped six inches in his chair and fixed her with a sulky look. "Answer that," he demanded, his forehead wrinkling with displeasure.

No skin off her back. Faith flipped the phone open and held it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Faifffff." The man on the other end of the line spoke sluggishly, mauling her name. "Faiffffff… where have you been?"

"Uh, sorry, who is this?"

"Tham."

"Th. . . Sam? Sam Winchester?"

"Yethhh."

"Are you okay?" Faith asked in concern, lowering Angel's beautiful office chair onto all four of its legs. "Sam, is everything okay?"

"I'm in Connecticut. And I'm . . . drunk," Sam announced gravely, and everything fell into place. Well, almost everything.

"Sam, where's your brother? He know you're drunk-dialing on his phone?"

"Dean's bossy. And short. You're bossy, too. You two would get along."

Her eyebrows steadily creeping their way up her forehead, Faith was hard-pressed to stifle her amusement. "You're trashed, Sam-boy."

"Dean said your birthday was last month."

"It was."

"Happy birfday…"

"Thanks."

"I wrote you a song."

 _Oh, no._  "You what?"

Sam began singing loudly into the phone, an off-pitch gargling noise that sounded like a dog howling. Faith tried not to grimace, but she kept making such horrified faces that Angel stole the phone away from her and put it on speaker.

"What the – ?"

"Shh." Faith hurried to cover his mouth. "Just listen."

"Highway run  
Into the midnight sun  
Wheels go round and round  
You're on his mind.

. . . .

Restless hearts  
Sleep alone tonight  
Sending all his love  
Along the wire

. . . .

They say that the road  
Ain't no place to start a family.  
Right down the line,  
It's been you and Dean.  
And lovin' a Vampire Slayer  
Ain't always what it's supposed to be.  
Oh, girl, you stand by Dean.  
He's forever yours . . . Faith, fully."

"Is that  _Journey_?" Angel hissed, sotto voce.

Faith had covered her own mouth to refrain from giggling. "I think so. Or it used to be, in a former life."

"And Angelus thought  _I_ did bad things with karaoke . . . "

But Sam was still singing, and Faith didn't have the heart to hang up.

"Hunter life  
In a scary-ass world  
We all need hot girls  
To make us smile

. . . .

Through space and time  
Always another hunt  
My brother's a freaking mess  
Lost without you.

. . . .

And being apart  
Ain't easy on y'all's love affair  
Two strangers always falling in love again.  
He gets the joy of rediscovering you.  
Oh, girl, you stand by Dean.  
He's forever yours . . . Faith, fully."

The Slayer hung up the phone when Sam got to the 'whooaaaa' part. It was just too much. Angel was sniggering into his fist like a high-school sophomore, and she had a feeling that she was going to lose half the night to damage control. Still, she halfway wished that she had had the foresight to record that little serenade. It would have been fun to listen to again.


	47. Hey You, pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The intensity is about to ramp up in Synch world. So buckle up, grab a raincoat, and hold on tight.
> 
> Supernatural episodes referenced this chapter are Tall Tales, Folsom Prison Blues, What Is and What Should Never Be, and All Hell Breaks Loose, pts 1&2.

* * *

**February 7th, 2007 Springfield, Ohio**

"I swear, put one kink in your tail, and neither you nor your brother can function right," chuckled Bobby as he opened the door of his beat-up Chevrolet Chevelle. "The way that Trickster was runnin' round you in circles . . ."

"We got him in the end, though." Sam stepped in to reclaim their honor while Dean stared at the broken asphalt beneath the Chevy's tires. "That's what counts."

The older hunter raised his eyebrows. "This time, maybe, but what about next? You sure Trickster's all it was that had you boys at each other's throats?"

Dean looked up and locked gazes with the older man. "We're fine, Bobby," he said with a tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Peachy keen."

Bobby snorted. "Uh huh." He lowered himself into the front seat of the car. As he did so, his glance caught on a plastic grocery sack on the shotgun seat next to him. "Oh . . . I almost forgot. I've got something for you, Dean."

"Yeah? More of those hot girls in the red stripper outfits?"

"Do you one better – " Bobby grabbed the handles of the bag and passed it to Dean. "Got your mail."

Brow furrowing in surprise, Dean caught the bag on reflex. "My mail?" That didn't make sense. Who would write to him? He stuck a hand into the plastic sack and pulled out four postcards. "What the –" Flipping the card over, he scanned the writing on the back.

"That's what I thought when they first started to show up. There're about a dozen in there, and they all arrived within a week of each other. Got 'em about three weeks ago, maybe? Seems like they're sorta sequential."

"You read my mail?" Dean demanded, mildly offended.

The older man scowled. "They're postcards. You can't help reading 'em. And she only addressed half of them properly, so I had to work out who they were intended for."

"She?" Maybe it was the aftereffects of the Trickster, but Dean was feeling particularly slow on the uptake today.

"They signed 'Faith' by any chance?" asked Sam knowingly. Dean glanced up from the postcard in his hand and frowned at his brother.

Bobby smiled. "We-ell, now that you mention it . . ."

Frown deepening, Dean shoved the postcards back into their sack. "You know what, you two? Oh . . . never mind," he grumbled at the unmasked amusement on their faces. "Bobby, thanks again for your help. Sam, get your ass in the car."

He barely waited for the shotgun door to close behind his lanky Bigfoot of a brother before revving the engine and pulling out of their motel parking lot. If he never saw this town again, it would still be too soon. Tucked between his leg and the driver's door, the bag of postcards burned against his jeans, but Dean was not going to give in to instant gratification. Not when Sammy was sitting right there, still smirking like some dumb Cheshire Cat.

It wasn't until the evening, when they found a new craphole in the middle of nowhere to stop for the night, that he finally had a moment of privacy. While Sam took a shower, Dean hastily spread the postcards out across the rickety table in their motel room. He looked at the outsides first. Of the thirteen cards, six of them were from London, occupied with images of Big Ben and Westminster Abbey and some giant black lion statues in front of a fountain.

The other seven were a motley group. Two had pictures of the Eiffel Tower, one bore the legend, "Kiss Me; I'm Irish!", and another two celebrated the Moulin Rouge. The final two postcards were from Brazil. Dean turned the postcards face down in an attempt to arrange them by message. All had been postmarked from London, five of them on the same day, and the others spread out by a day or two in between each one.

After putting the postcards in order by date, the hunter sorted the half dozen earliest. They seemed to comprise continuing bits of the same, long message. He moved quickly, switching out the order of the cards until Faith's message made sense.

_Dean,_

_How do people write on these? They're so g-ddamn small. And anyone can see what you write. Anyway, I'm back in London for the next little bit. I bought these -_ the rest of the page had been scribbled out in a black smudge.

_. . . ._

_Oops. Sorry about that. I smeared the ink. I bought these postcards earlier and meant to send some of them while Giles and I were . . . investigating. We're starting to get a lead on the –_

_. . . ._

_On the person behind the latest accident. Which it wasn't, if you catch my drift. Buffy's kinda tense lately, but at least she's talking to us. Which I suppose is an improvement?_

. . . .

_Anyway, how are you? How's Sam? Tell him I say hi. I guess I could write one of these to him, but they were supposed to be for your birthday. I know, I know, they're getting there a little late._

_. . . ._

_I meant to send them before. And it's not like I'm great with birthdays. Don't have that many to keep track of, haven't had a lot of practice, insert excuse here. So, I guess this is the part where I say Happy Birthday . . ._

. . . .

As he read the cards, Dean stacked them back together in neat order. He didn't need Sam popping out of the shower early and reading them. The next seven postcards were far simpler. They just had 'Happy Birthday' written across them in different colors of ink and different fonts. Some were in all capitals, others in cursive, and one was in badly done bubble letters. The last lacked words completely. Instead, in the space where the message would have been, there was a bright red lipstick print.

When he reached the end of the postcards, the hunter slid them back into their plastic sack and carefully tucked them away in a side pocket on his olive green duffel. Sam had been all twitchy lately, and his vision headaches were getting worse, so Dean took the bed closer to the door. Flopping across the mattress, he folded his hands beneath his head and kicked off his boots, the entire while smiling like Christmas had come ten months early.

* * *

**April 1st, 2007, Green River County Detention Center, Little Rock, Arkansas**

Thankfully, Sam waited until they had clambered over the prison fence and retrieved the Impala before rounding on his brother. To be honest, Dean had been expecting this. Some overprotective, angry vitriol that barely hid the relief lurking behind the rage. It was exactly how their father often reacted to close scrapes. Hell, Dean had done it himself a time or two. After all, it was classic Winchester behavior.

What Dean hadn't expected was the subject matter of Sam's outburst. They were hardly two counties out of the frying pan when his little brother turned on him, his eyes glowering in that uniquely pissed-off Sam way, somehow managing to make his voice more bitchy than any girl Dean had ever met.

"Your girlfriend's a felon," snapped Sam with an impressive glare, even by his standards. "Did you know?"

Dean shook his head in confusion. "Come again?"

"Faith. The Vampire Slayer."

Attempting to subvert the subject of conversation – another classic Winchester move – he countered, "Faith's not my girlfriend, Sam."

"Fine. The girl you're always sleeping with, then."

"Whoah. Dude. Stop right there. I haven't . . . Faith and I don't . . . what exactly are you freaking out about here?"

"She's served hard time for murder, Dean. Of a person."

The hunter gave his brother a skeptical glance. "Hard time?" he mocked. "We just got out of a stint in a moderate-security prison, and you're using words like 'hard time'?"

Sam's glare intensified. "Dean. Don't tell me Henriksen was actually telling the truth. In my interrogation, he said I should run away from you. Told me that you were palling around with one of the most brutal killers the California DOJ had ever processed. Was he wrong?"

"You wanna run away from me?" Dean needed a moment to think, to come up with an explanation that Sam would buy. Once again, he went for avoidance.

"You know I don't," Sam answered shortly. "Just answer the question, Dean."

"Why? So you can decide that you're better than she is, pull some 'holier than thou' crap and ram a giant stick up your ass?"

"I don't believe this. It  _is_  true."

Dammit. Dean had not intended for things to get away from him like that. Struggling to regain the upper hand in this conversation, he inhaled deeply through his nose. "Sam – "

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't my story to tell," he snapped back. "I mean, what was I going to say? Hey, this's my friend Faith, by the way she once mistook an evil human for a vampire and staked him?"

His ire cooling, Sam begrudged, "So it was an accident."

 _The first time,_ Dean thought. "Yes," he said aloud, his resolve not to lie to Sam failing. Like he'd said, Faith's past wasn't his story to share. "Anyway, how did they link her up with us?"

"He mentioned something about New Jersey."

Dean swore vehemently for a good minute and a half. "I knew that would come back to bite us in the ass," he growled.

It was Sam's turn to placate his brother. "Nothing we could've done, Dean. We couldn't have known it was a set-up."

"I should have," grumbled the older man.

"You're not perfect, Dean."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"No . . . that's not . . ." Sam ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "What I meant was that you don't have to be perfect, and only someone who was perfect could have had a shot of figuring that out ahead of time. So . . . just don't feel guilty about that one, okay?"

He really needed to get Sam some kind of muzzle for these long distance trips. Only half an hour in, and already his little brother had broached more uncomfortable subjects than Dean felt like facing on any given week. "Easy, Sasquatch. I know it was touch and go back there with Henriksen, but the chick flick clip show stops here."

"Okay," conceded Sam. "But about Faith . . ."

"Don't say anything to her," Dean warned. "Unless you want to see her flip out. When she wants you to know, she'll tell you."

"But – "

"I mean it, Sammy." He threw in the nickname as a way of soothing and consoling the angsty, angry mess sitting in the front seat of his car. "It's nothing to worry about."

* * *

**April 20th, 2007, Joliet, Illinois**

For some reason, Dean hesitated to give his brother the full details of the djinn attack. Beyond the fact that it was incredibly embarrassing to have been jumped like that, he wasn't sure that Sam was ready for the full story of his magic-induced wish state. And it would have been a little cruel, to tell Sammy how good Mom looked, how fresh and clean the house smelled, the way Jessica glowed and treated him like he was her whole world.

No, avoiding full disclosure was definitely the best strategy where Sam was concerned. But that didn't mean that he couldn't talk about his frakked-up dream at all. Which was how Dean found himself dawdling about on a food and gas run, his phone glued to his ear, a sarcastic Vampire Slayer on the other end of the line.

"Two deluxe bacon cheeseburgers, extra everything, uh, two large diet cokes, and a garden salad," he called into the drive-thru at Wendy's, the closest fast food joint to his and Sam's current motel. After the person at the window confirmed the order, Dean turned his attention back to his story. "And it was perfect," he concluded, disgusted by the near-wistful quality of his voice. "Life as I'd always wanted it. Only . . ."

"Only?" Faith's tone was muffled by the lateness of the hour. It was almost midnight her time.

Dean exhaled through his teeth. "My dad was dead – stroke – and Sam and I didn't even talk." He hesitated, and then added a final regret, "And your phone number didn't work."

"You called me?" The Slayer's surprise was palpable.

"At first. I wanted to make sure that I wasn't crazy. That all the things that went bump in the night still did."

"Did I answer?" Faith sounded genuinely curious.

The hunter waited to get all of his food into the car and the windows rolled back up before answering. "The number had been disconnected. And . . . when I was looking up people we'd helped, people who were dead . . ."

She picked up on his reluctance. "Yeah?"

"I found your obituary."

"Huh."

It bothered him, the idea that her death had upset him more than it upset her. "You're taking this well."

"Well, the way I figure, if there are alternate universes, I'm probably dead in a good chunk of them. Slayers aren't exactly known for old age or workplace safety, really. Can't imagine why that is . . ." She laughed lightly. "So . . . you missed me, in this perfect world of yours?"

Dean didn't say what he was thinking, that he didn't need to be in an alternate world to miss her. Listening to her laugh from a thousand miles away was more than enough to do the trick. "When are you coming back to the States?" he asked, once her amusement at her own cleverness had faded away into silence.

"Not for a while, unfortunately. Someone's been ramping up an anti-Slayer campaign. We're all actually taking it kinda seriously. So, of course, Buffy wants me where she can keep her eyes on me."

This was an apparent non-sequitur. "What, she thinks you're behind it?"

"Nah. No, she may be suspicious of everything from my fashion choices to what I had for lunch, but she's not that paranoid. She knows I'm the best fighter they've got, maybe excluding her."

"You're awfully sure of yourself."

"Whatever. It's the truth."

He could hear the smirk in her voice, and Dean wished he could just reach through the telephone line and punch her in the shoulder. No one had the right to sound that smug. Instead, he settled for saying, "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. None of those little Slayers can touch me. I've got experience on 'em. And something else."

"What?"

The smirk disappeared. "Prison."

* * *

**May 6th, 2007 Casper, Wyoming**

He didn't want to call her. She was in Tibet, at some zen werewolf retreat, helping in the gathering of the Slayer troops for their next big battle. She didn't have reliable internet, much less cell phone service. Her only response to his panicked email following Sam's disappearance had been full of sympathy, regret, profanity, and fear. But it had also included a satellite phone number, and the plea for him to call whenever he had news.

Dean hadn't called. There had been too much going on. Too much searching, followed by the worst numbness and failure of his entire life. And then there had been a Hell-opening to stop, and Yellow Eyes to eviscerate, and not once had she crossed his mind.

Like so many of the other things Dean would rather ignore, this was Sam's idea. One of his first questions after finding out about the crossroads deal had been, "Does Faith know?" And once Dean answered in the negative, his little brother just couldn't let it go. Which sucked. Dean had absolutely no desire to talk about it with anyone. Bobby knew, and so did Sam, and Ellen maybe had an idea. Already, that was three people too many.

He just wished it would all go away – that they would all go away and leave him with his remaining three hundred and fifty something days. But Sam was like a fricking bulldog, and he'd gotten his teeth on the bit. Although Dean might have been thinking in mixed metaphors, he was in no mood to straighten out any figures of speech. And Sam kept hovering, asking, asking, asking, and so finally Dean left him in the motel and took the Impala for a drive across town.

The hunter stopped the car in front of a nearly deserted park. There were a couple of children swinging back and forth on the ramshackle swings, and a handful of them were pushing the merry-go-round faster and faster, but other than that, the place was empty. Dean rolled the windows down, and the happy yells and shrieks of the kids drifted into the car on the summer air. Accepting the inevitable, he checked the satellite number one last time, and dialed.

She answered on the fifth ring. "Dean?"

Of course she had his number memorized. It made sense. He could recite hers in his sleep. "Hey."

"You find Sam?"

"Yeah."

"He okay?"

"He's fine."

"Are you okay?"

Dean had no idea how she did that. He guessed that you really could know a person after four years. "Faith . . ."

"Yeah?"

"I . . . I need to tell you something."

He heard the rustle of fabric and the creaking of rusty springs. "Let me step out – they're having a big war conference in the other room."

Neither of them spoke while Faith relocated. In the silence, Dean almost reconsidered. He was dreading this, dreading the lecture or disappointment or angry tantrum that was bound to ensue when he told the truth. No one had responded well. Not Sam, and definitely not Bobby. He couldn't see Faith being any more understanding.

"Okay, I'm in a better spot. What's on your mind?"

"Faith . . ." the hunter froze, not entirely sure how to proceed. "I . . ."

The Slayer did not interrupt him. She simply waited for him to find his way. And Dean appreciated that. Deep down inside where everything burned and ached and was so desperately, horribly hopeless, a sliver of him was free to appreciate the space.

At last, Dean found his voice. He told her the bare bones of the story, beginning with Sam's disappearance. To Faith's credit, she made no comments, no noises, other than a hitch in her breath when he explained how Sam had died. And then, when he told her what he had done to fix things, to make right what could never, ever be made right, a quiet "Oh."

In its way, that gentle murmur was worse than Bobby's raging and Sam's horror. Dean had to swallow around the giant lump in his throat before he could finish the story of how he had killed Yellow Eyes and finally, finally avenged his parents.

"So that's it," he concluded. "You can jump on me now, tell me how I'm such a frakking idiot, that a crossroads deal isn't something to be messed with, that I should have known better, that I should have just let it be. Go ahead, tell me."

But Faith did not say anything for a long moment. He listened to her breathing from halfway across the world and wished she would go on and get it over with. Dean knew how it would go, could practically have written the script himself. The anger would be first, and then the bargaining, the foolishly optimistic assurances of a solution that neither of them would really believe existed, and then there would be awkwardness, and she would hang up.

He should have known better. This was Faith Lehane, and even after four years, she could still throw him for a curve ball at the drop of a hat.

"I don't know what to say," the Slayer mumbled, her voice shaky. Surprised, Dean wondered if she had been crying. He had not expected that. Not in front of him, anyway. Faith never cried in front of him, not since that first case in Pennsylvania. Sometimes, he wondered if she ever cried at all.

"Say something," he replied, the order almost a plea.

"I wish I wasn't in damn Tibet."

Dean swallowed again. "Me, too."

"As soon as we find this bastard who's been killing Slayers and gut him, I'll fly back."

"To do what?" he asked, dreading her response.

"Whatever you want, whatever you need. I don't care if it means incurring the wrath of the grand Buff or dressing up like a cheerleader. It's . . . It's been too damn long."

He exhaled in relief. "Yeah."

Faith cleared her throat. When she spoke again, the shakiness had disappeared from her voice. "Frak. Oz is coming my way. I guess they do want me at the war council after all." She swore under her breath. "Dean, I . . ."

"I know."

"What I mean is . . . Oh, for the love of G-d. Yes, Oz, I heard you!" she called to someone else.

"You'd better go."

"Dean – "

"I'll see you when you've finished saving the world." It was said with no bitterness.

"Take care of yourself."

Dean ignored the irony of the sentiment. "You, too."

Long after the line clicked off and the phone went silent, Dean sat there, staring at the children on the playground, until the sun sank down behind the Wyoming hills and their mothers called them to come home.


	48. Highway to Hell, pt 1

**A/N:** This picks up immediately after the SPN episode "Bad Day at Black Rock."

* * *

**June 16th, 2007 Cleveland, Ohio**

He was driving along I-90 when he called her, Sam sleeping peacefully in the back seat. As peacefully as anyone could sleep with a hole through their shoulder. Dean had patched up the wound as best as he could, but he was still flooring it to get to Bobby's before any complications set in. If Sam needed to go to the hospital, Bobby could be the one to make him go. Right now, Dean was far too pissed about losing his lottery winnings to deal with strong-arming his reluctant brother.

The other end of the line picked up. "Hey," she answered, her voice cracking.

Dean spoke quietly, far more mellow that he actually felt. "You sound awful."

"Mmm."

In the background, he could pick out the noise of car doors slamming and raised female voices. "Where are you?"

"Back in Sunnyhell," scoffed Faith in derision. "Or what's left of it. You?"

"Driving through Cleveland."

"Oh."

"So . . . California. That mean you get your 'Twilight' issue sorted out?"

Faith swore. "It's a sh-tstorm, Dean. Let's just say that Twilight was really Angel in disguise, going about incognito to prevent the deaths of more Slayer. And once you swallow that giant steaming pile of BS, both he and Buffster became super-heroes and had super-sex and created an alternate dimension. Now, B has decided that the world doesn't need any more magic, and she's hauled all our asses from Tibet to California to destroy the seed of magic in the world so that the demons can't have it."

A beat of silence followed this tirade. "Are you high?"

"I wish. Then at least this would all be ending. No, it's just me and my bruises the size of Kentucky. Twilight beat the crap out of me a week ago, and it still hurts to take a deep breath."

The hunter's voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Angel hurt you?"

"Not Angel. Twilight. The thing that was possessing him or whatever. That's what Buffy says . . ."

Dean tried to sort this out in his head. He really, really, honestly did. But it made about as much sense as some whacked-out comic book. So he told her that.

The Slayer laughed humorlessly. "Oh, I know. Anyway . . . enough about me. What's up? Most of the Slayers are here, but I made Becka and Lily stay in Ohio. They could open up the apartment for you guys, if you and Sam need a place to crash for the night."

"Thanks, but we're hoofing it to Sioux Falls, driving straight through."

"Sioux Falls . . . that's where the friend of your dad lives, the one you had me address mail to?"

"Yeah." He was passing the exit that led to her apartment now, and Dean watched the numbered sign flash by with a vague sense of regret. "Hey, listen. You lot need help in California or something? Sam's a bit banged up right now – we had a run-in with this chick – but we can be there in two or three days."

Faith sighed into the phone. "While I would definitely welcome some sanity around here, I doubt we've got that long 'til the hurly-burly starts." Someone approached her, a faded man's voice that sounded surprisingly tentative. The Slayer addressed the newcomer. "Andrew, no, it isn't Spike. This's Dean. I have no idea where Spike is. Why don't you call him? Oh, right. Of course he doesn't have a phone. Vampires."

She paused as Andrew made some comment. "No, Andrew, you can't talk to Dean. He's busy. Tell Buffy and Giles I'll be right there. Go on, shoo."

Andrew must have shooed, for the next time Faith spoke, it was directly to Dean. "He means well."

"Seems like it." Originally, the purpose of this call had been to ask Faith if she could make inquiries about Bela Talbot. That Watcher's Council of hers had to have a finger on the pulse of the antiquities black market. But now, Dean couldn't get himself to bring it up. "You sure you don't want us to drive out?"

"Dean. You remember how well the last time went. And that was without the Summers girls."

"Lot's changed since then. Sounds like you could really use a couple extra pairs of hands. It'll be fine. Have a little faith."

"You've been waiting to use that line for a while, haven't you." It was a statement, not a question.

"Years."

"You don't have to – "

"What, and miss out on the chance to finally meet the infamous Buffy? Nah. We're headed your way." Sam would agree. And if he didn't, well, it wasn't exactly like Dean was planning on giving him a choice. "See you in seventy-two."

* * *

**June 18th, 2007 Sunnydale, California**

Ironically enough, it was Xander who told her, wading in through the swarm of demons surrounding the copse where she and Andrew were fighting for their lives.

"Angel's here!" he yelled over the tumult as he ducked beneath the flashing scimitar of a particularly orc-like demon. The one-eyed man avoided his opponent's blade and shoved his own sword through the creature's stomach and out through its spine. "He's fighting Buffy. Giles went to stop them with the Scythe."

"He  _what_?" Faith bellowed back. She kicked a demon in the throat and beheaded it before its corpse hit the ground. "Kinda busy here, Xander."

"He's going to try and stop them!"

"Sh-t." The Slayer did not have time for this. What had begun as a circle of Slayers and Scoobies had devolved throughout the afternoon as their numbers were continually cut down by the enemy. Her arms ached from the effort of lifting her sword time and time again. And now Angel, who ought to have been contributing to the solution, was a giant part of the problem.

People had already died today. Far too many of them. She would be damned if she would allow either Angel or Giles to join their number.

"It stops here," grumbled Faith. "Come on, Andrew!"

Aided by Xander, they fought their way through the press of demons until they could reach the ruins of the high school. Faith barreled down a half-caved-in staircase, following Xander's directions to the underground cave where three of the most important people in her world were locked in combat. She could hear the two men arguing at her back as they debated whether or not Buffy and Angel would actually kill each other this round. Andrew said no; Xander thought yes.

After far too long a time, she came sprinting round the corner into the cave where the seed of magic had been carefully tended, its blue fluorescence now stained violet by the blood coating the cave walls. Faith staggered to a halt. She was just in time to watch Angel step up behind Giles, place one hand on his chin, and break the older man's neck in a single motion. Giles' body crumpled to the earth.

Buffy howled as the red scythe fell from her mentor's dead hands. Angel merely looked up from his handiwork, his eyes dark, hooded, and filled with pleasure. At the entrance of the cave, Andrew whimpered, and Xander moaned.

"No," Faith said in denial. Without thinking, she drew her Smith & Wesson from its place at her belt and fired three rounds straight into Angel's chest. Each shot was punctuated with a blistering, "No. No. No."

The vampire turned to face her. "Iron can't hurt me. You should know better than that."

Faith threw the revolver away. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Buffy reaching for the abandoned scythe. Their eyes met, and Buffy nodded imperceptibly. Right. Distraction time. Faith leapt at Angel, allowing grief and misery to give her added speed. "You bastard. You f-cking bastard."

He caught her around the waist and tossed her to the ground. Before she could get air back into her lungs, Angel planted one heavy boot in the center of her chest, pinning her down. With the other boot, he stamped onto her left shin with all of his force. His vampire strength combined with the energy of Twilight was more than her body could withstand. Faith's tibia shattered in two, the lower half of the bone being driven through muscle and skin until it poked through the back side of her black trousers.

"Aaaaaaagghhh!" The scream that followed was ripped from every molecule and corner of the Slayer's body. She couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't feel anything except for burning burning burning. Sun-spotted darkness loomed around the edges of her vision, drawing her down into oblivion.

But Buffy's fingers had only just closed around the haft of the Scythe. B needed more time. If Faith lost Angel's attention now, they were lost. The brunette struggled to remain conscious. "That . . . the best . . . you can do?" she demanded faintly.

"You really don't know when to quit, do you, Faith?"

That confirmed it, if there had ever been any doubt. Definitely Angel. Angelus would've used her nickname. Through the pain, she guessed that was something to be grateful for. Whatever nightmares followed this, at least 'Faithy' would not be part of them.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, gasping for breath. Andrew and Xander were staring at her, their faces white and horrified. "Just . . . you . . . wait. You sonnuvabitch."

Quirking his eyebrows, Angel raised his boot and positioned it above her right leg. "Nine years, and still as stupid as the day you were Chosen," he taunted.

"Angel." The plea slipped out before Faith could stop herself. She couldn't take another break like the last one. Although she was fighting through it, she was still nauseated and on fire, and her bladder had given way approximately when her tibia did.

Buffy rose, the Scythe gripped in both hands. Like the other fighters, she was covered from head to toe in dirt, blood, and tears. Somewhere in the battle, she had lost her jacket, and there were giant slashes in the sides of her jeans and her t-shirt. "No. More," said the Slayer, her eyes sweeping the ground from lifeless Giles to bleeding Faith to the expressionless Angel. Her voice was like thunder, like adamant, like the final death-knell ringing out from some ancient cathedral in the depths of time. "NO. MORE."

Shaking her head in a single gesture of irrevocable rejection, Buffy lifted the Scythe. She swung it back, over her head and forward. Angel dodged out of the way, and the blade hurtled past him. He turned, smirking, and then froze. For the seed, and not the vampire, had been Buffy's true target. The Scythe neatly sliced through the glowing violet light, severing it completely.

Something changed, and Angel fell to his knees. The entity called Twilight left him, unable to subsist in this dimension where magic had just been so violently ripped away from its possessors. Andrew and Xander rushed forward, the latter hurrying to Giles' side, feeling in vain for a pulse. The former ripped off his coat and began cobbling together an improvised splint for Faith, who had finally passed out.

"No. More," repeated Buffy, and a single tear forged a new path in the dust coating her face. "No more."

* * *

She came to in the back of an ambulance, surrounded by strangers in uniform. Not the best place for a felon to find herself. Faith jerked upright but was stopped by the heavy nylon straps keeping her firmly attached to the stretcher. While her forebrain slowly took in the imperturbable faces of the EMT paramedic on one side of her and Andrew down by her feet, the rest of her decided to throw a panic party.

The Slayer threw herself from side to side, only marginally aware of the agony in her left leg. She had to escape. Now. Now now now now now now now now. Before someone decided to return her to concrete walls and electric fences.

"Ma'am. Ma'am," one of the EMTs was saying, his hand closing tightly around her right shoulder. "Ma'am, you're safe. Calm down. Calm down, please."

"Henry, I think you're going to have to give her something," his partner added from the cab of the ambulance. "She's going to make that break even worse."

Henry shook this off. "Can you calm her down?" he asked Andrew.

"I don't know."

"I need you to try, or we're going to have to administer a sedative. I'd rather not do that, but Vincent's right. If she keeps thrashing like this, she could potentially injure an artery." Henry might have been embellishing the truth a little, but his concern was real.

"Okay. I'll try." Andrew gripped Faith's hand in his. He attempted to rub a thumb smoothly across the back of her hand, but the Slayer tore her hand out of his reach almost instantaneously. "Faith. Faith. If you can hear me, relax. It's okay. We're taking you to the hospital. It's going to be okay."

Faith's back arched off the stretcher, and she let out an inhuman moan.

"I don't think it's working," admitted Andrew shamefacedly. "I don't think I can reach her."

"You did your best," consoled Henry. "Vincent, I'm gonna give her the lorazepam, see if I can't get her resting a little easier."

"Point five milligram or the two?"

Henry opened a small medicine cabinet built into the side wall of the ambulance and withdrew a clear glass vial and a sterile needle. He took the needle out of its packaging, turning the vial upside down, and drew the sedative. "She's not even reacting to voices right now, so I'll administer the two."

Vincent nodded in the rearview mirror. "Sounds good."

Pulling back Faith's sleeve so that it bared her shoulder, Henry quickly wiped the exposed skin with rubbing alcohol and uncapped the needle. "Sorry about this," he apologized. With one hand, he held the Slayer's shoulder still on the stretcher. With the other, he stabbed the sterile point into her deltoid and pushed the plunger in with his thumb. Faith swung her free hand around and pried his fingers away from her – but it was too late. The line of sedative had disappeared beyond the barrel, through the tip of the needle, and into her muscle.

The EMT moved away and capped the needle. "That should kick in in a minute," he said calmly.

Faith stared blankly at the steel inside of the ambulance roof. Already, the fire seemed to leach out of her blood and bone, leaving only a throbbing ache in their wake.  _Frak_ , she thought as her mind cooled.  _Frak_. She fumbled for words, feeling control of her own body slipping past her. "'Drew. Where's . . . Buffy?"

The freckled face of Andrew filled her vision as the twenty-something bent over her. "She's with Xander . . . and the other girls . . . and Giles."

Tears burned at the corners of the Slayer's eyes. "'Drew. I need . . ."

"Yeah?"

She blinked, and the tears spilled over, streaming down the sides of her face and into her hair. "Phone's in my pocket. Call Dean. Tell him . . ." She paused as a fresh wave of pain threatened to engulf her. "Tell him we don't need any more help." The lorazepam finally finished kicking in. Faith allowed the sedative to sweep over her, tugging her gently and inexorably back into unconsciousness and away from her pain and grief.

* * *

The next several hours passed in a haze of benzodiazepines and opiates. Faith was vaguely aware of being transferred from the ambulance stretcher onto a bed in a trauma bay, of people in gray scrubs removing her clothing and sticking various medical things in places she wished they wouldn't.

After almost half an hour in the Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital emergency room, an orthopedic surgeon was looming above her, explaining something about her x-rays and prepping for surgery. She watched as if from a great distance while Andrew signed her consent form for her, and then fell back into her haze. With what little cognitive power she currently possessed, she was grateful for the drugs. They made it so much easier not to think.

Xander and Buffy made a brief appearance right before she went under the general anesthetic, Buffy looking so confused and shattered that Faith almost fought her way clear of the medication to say something consoling. Upon reflection, it was probably a good thing she was too drugged to her eyeballs to do so. Chances were, anything Faith had to say would just make Buffy feel worse.

Faith woke up four hours later in a private hotel room. The place was deserted, except for Andrew, who was reading some trade paperback with a shirtless blond Fabio holding an axe on the black cover. He hastily shoved the book into his messenger bag – how did he still have that with him? – and stood up when he realized her eyes were open.

"You're back in the land of the living." He threw his hands in the air in a gesture of excitement. It failed to lift her spirits.

"Calm down," Faith groaned. Her head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton wool that had been used as a handkerchief by a giant with allergies. "I think I've been turned into a coyote chew-toy."

Andrew reached across for the glass of water on her bedside table and brought it within her reach. "No offense intended, Faith, but you kind of look like one," he admitted, helping her drink. "But, good news, the surgeon said they were able to set your leg and sew everything back up."

"How are you so cheerful?" The Slayer gulped down half the glass and then pushed Andrew's hand away. "Did he say when I can leave?"

The Watcher-in-training shook his head. "No. He did say he'd come by again later tonight."

Leaning back against the pillows, Faith closed her eyes. She really didn't want to think about this whole hospital thing. If she paid it too much attention, it would become unbearable. "Any news, on . . . on . . ."

Suitably subdued, Andrew guessed what she was referring to. "I think Dawn and Xander and Satsu are trying to get things sorted out. Dawn's calling Giles' lawyers, trying to get ahold of his family . . ."

"I didn't realize G-man still had family." Faith wondered what else she hadn't known about Giles, and her already poor mood soured even further. "I take it my clothes are ruined, huh?"

Andrew held up a plastic personal effects bag and frowned in sympathy. "Unfortunately. But I've got your phone and your wallet and your boots and your revolver in here, and the cross necklace you were wearing. Where did you get that, by the way?" he asked innocently.

"Dean gave it to me, few years back." Eyes still shut tight, Faith missed the momentary glimpse of self-satisfaction that flashed across the younger man's face and then was gone. "Thanks for saving my crap." She sighed. "Did anyone bring my other stuff?"

"I'll ask Dawn to bring it up with her next time. She's still ferrying Slayers to the other community hospitals, the ones who aren't as badly injured. You know how it goes."

"Spread out the damage so no one asks too many questions." Opening her eyes, the Slayer picked apathetically at the neckline of her hospital gown. She'd made it seven years without having to wear one. As soon as that surgeon got his head in here, she would be asking him if it could go. If he wanted her to, she'd try to put up with the hospital, stay put for a couple of days, but she did not think she could handle the gown. The very feeling of the fabric against her skin made her want to scream.

"Yeah . . ." Andrew reclaimed his plastic visitor's chair, dragging it closer to the bed. "Are you . . . how are you feeling?"

"Thought we played this track already – like I've been chewed on and digested by a coyote. How about you?" she added, noting the scrape across Andrew's right cheekbone and the rips in his corduroy pants. "You all in one piece, still?"

He brushed away her concern with one of his overly enthusiastic smiles, but this one was weaker than most. "Just great. They gave me some antibiotic stuff while I was waiting for you to get out of surgery."

"Thanks, 'Drew." Sincere gratitude permeated the Slayer's voice. "I really mean it."

Andrew shrugged, distancing himself from the emotion. In a corner of her mind, Faith wondered when that had happened. When had her puppy-like pseudo-Watcher friend stopped being goofy and dramatic and started being guarded? "I know you aren't fond of hospitals," he said casually.

Taking the hint, Faith dropped the subject. "What time is it?" she asked, glancing around her hospital room. It was decent accommodations – private bathroom, a couple of plastic chairs, a medium-sized flat screen on the wall opposite from the bed. She hunted through the bedcovers for the TV remote. If she was stuck here for the rest of the day, at least she could channel surf. Who knew? Maybe that one show about the mob would be on.

Drew checked his watch. "Six p.m." He crossed the room and found the remote for her lying on the windowsill, presenting it with a purposefully over-the-top bow. "Your magical box controlling device, my lady. I am, as ever, at your service."

Faith glanced at him sharply as he took his seat again and sat cross-legged, staring expectantly at the TV. "I get the feeling that you and I need to have a conversation."

"Hmm?" Andrew tilted his head in her direction. "What do you mean?"

She wasn't entirely sure what she meant herself, but a hint of something was pushing its way through the post-operational recovery fugue state, and Faith was too out of it to guard her tongue. "We forget you a lot, don't we? I mean, I complain about always being on Buffy's sh-tlist, but at least I register. At least she's too worried about me pulling the rug out from under her to forget that I'm . . ."

Andrew rose to his feet. "To forget that what?" His voice was strained with the effort of being polite.

"To forget that I'm part of the whole thing." Faith faltered as Andrew's expression closed over. "Oh . . . G-d, Drew, I didn't mean . . . I'm on way too much medication . . . I . . ."

The young Watcher drew his messenger bag closer to him like a knight's shield. "It's fine, Faith. I'm just going to step out and get some coffee and a sandwich. Dean and his brother should be here in an hour or so. I'll meet them and bring them up."

He had slipped out the curtain and was gone before Faith could say anything else. Left to her own devices, the empty hospital room felt stuffy and oppressive. It all came back to her, with high-definition clarity. Giles' eyes clouding over, the satisfaction on Angel's face as he broke her leg, that moment when Buffy had just . . . broken. And, as a special bonus prize, she had just hurt Andrew, the only one who'd stuck it through with her.

Faith sunk further down in the bed, plucking at the covers until they were nearly up to her chin. She flicked through the TV channels peevishly in a hunt for something to take her mind away from how absolutely sh-tty today had been. Of course, there was nothing decent on, and she ended up watching Law & Order. Which, of course, was far too predictable to distract her from the gaping hole of emotional crap that had swallowed her life.

She really, really hated hospitals.


	49. Highway to Hell, pt 2

**June 18** **th** **, 2007 Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital, Santa Barbara, California 6:30 p.m.**

It seemed like an eternity before the doctor poked his head into the room, but there had only been two commercial breaks on the television, so it was probably more like twenty minutes. He was a younger guy than Faith remembered, maybe in his mid-thirties, roughly about six-two, flecks of gray beginning to appear in his close-cut black hair. His smile lit up the dismal hospital room – incredibly white and likely expensive, it stretched from ear to ear and up into his eyes.

"Glad to see you're awake," the surgeon said by way of greeting.

He lifted the hem of her blanket and folded it back to examine her injured leg, propped up on several pillows and wrapped in a pale blue cast from the bottom of her left foot all the way up to her thigh, keeping her knee at around thirty degrees of flexion. The surgeon slid two fingers into the distal end of the cast and pressed down on the top of her foot. He then repeated this at the other end. "No extreme swelling, so that's good. Your post-operative X-rays came back, and they're looking great as well. How's the pain?"

"It's . . . okay," Faith answered hesitantly, realizing that she didn't actually know the doctor's name.

He must have come to a similar conclusion, for he straightened. "I'm Dr. Lassiter. We didn't really get a chance to talk earlier. Sorry about that. I generally don't operate under quite those rushed of circumstances, but your break was pretty bad, and I wanted to stabilize it as soon as we could. Mind if I sit down?"

"Go ahead."

Dr. Lassiter seated himself in Andrew's chair. "Thanks. So what you had, Ms. Lehane, is what we call an open displaced oblique fracture of your distal tibia. Which is to say that the heavy long bone in your shin fractured along an angled line and punctured through the skin. We irrigated everything – doctor speak for washing it out – and put a few plates in. I tried to do what I could about the soft tissue damage, but muscles and tendons can take a while to heal, so we'll see how that turns out."

"How long am I stuck in bed?"

"I'd like to keep you overnight, and then we'll see how things are in the morning. If we discharge you, you'll need to spend as much time as possible in the next few weeks resting your leg. Elevation, ice, that sort of thing. I can provide you with crutches, but I want you to keep your weight off the injured leg for six weeks."

"Six weeks? What the –" she spluttered, more shocked than angry.

The surgeon raised an eyebrow. "Bones take a while to heal," he pointed out calmly. "If you want them to heal right, you have to take care of them."

"And the cast? How long is that on for?"

"At least two weeks. After that, we could probably switch to a brace, but, like I said, if we want the bone to heal straight, we've got to help it along as much as we can."

Faith digested this in silence. She'd probably heal faster than that – after all, it was part of the 'hot chicks with superpowers' gig – but even accounting for Slayerness, it would be an obnoxiously long while until she was back to normal. "Do I have to wear  _this_  while I'm here?" She tugged at the neck of her gown.

"Not a fan of hospital fashion?"

"Not really, no."

Dr. Lassiter shrugged. "I'll let you work that one out with your nurse. If you have pants that fit easily over your cast, I don't see why not, though." He stood. "Do you have any other questions for me?"

The Slayer shook her head. "Not right now."

He nodded. "Good. I'll drop by the nurses' station on my way out, have a word about your pain meds and about crutches. If you feel up to it, you can start using the crutches tonight – with supervision. The last thing you need is a fall. Still, crutches are better than bed pans," he added with another of those beaming smiles.

Usually, Faith would have found his cheerfulness annoying, but there was something so sincere about Dr. Lassiter that she couldn't help but smile back at him. "Thanks, doc."

"I'll see you in the morning."

The surgeon was true to his word. Less than five minutes after he left, Faith's nurse, Carlie, came in with a dinner tray and a pair of shiny new aluminum crutches. A cheerful woman in her early-fifties, she helped the Slayer swing her casted leg over the side of the bed and stand with the aide of the crutches. Carlie hovered, watching through narrowed eyes, as Faith slowly navigated her way across the slippery tile floor to the bathroom.

Crutches were far more tiring than the Slayer had expected. She barely made it to the toilet before her strength gave out. Faith carefully lowered herself onto the seat, gripping the crutches with shaking fingers. Afterwards, she actually had to call Carlie in to help her get up without face-planting on the floor. The woman's helpfulness extended to sorting out how to take a shower in the handicap accessible bathroom. She showed Faith how to sit on the upholstered bench inside the shower while keeping her casted leg outside of the curtain and therefore dry.

It took far too long, but finally Faith was clean, clean of blood and dirt and iodine and the day before yesterday's makeup. She dressed in a fresh hospital gown and gingerly crutched back toward her bed. While she had been in the shower, Carlie had stripped the sheets and made the bed up with fresh ones. Relieved to be off her feet, the Slayer accepted her nurse's assistance in climbing back onto the bed and getting her broken leg raised up again on a mountain of pillows.

"Thanks," she mumbled awkwardly, fully aware of the fact that in the space of the last twenty minutes, Carlie had seen her in more vulnerable positions than anyone else had in years.

The nurse laughed. "Don't even worry about it. It's my job. Besides," she added conspiratorially, "if I'm helping you, then I'm not listening to the gossip at the nurses' station. One of the new girls got a tattoo, and you'd think she'd joined a nudist colony, the way everyone's going on. If you need anything else, there's a button on the wall next to your head." She bustled out in a flurry of competence and bagged laundry, leaving the Slayer's head whirling.

Faith was not left alone with her thoughts for long. Barely a minute passed after Carlie's departure before the revolving door of her hospital room was in full force again. This time, however, the visitors were not unexpected and completely welcome. Andrew led the way, pushing back the curtain. He was grinning at her, their former tension apparently forgotten. Faith didn't pay him too much attention as he stepped to the side. Her eyes were drawn to the figure following him.

She started at the ground and worked her way up, taking in every inch of his appearance. Dark brown work boots, slightly bowed legs encased in faded jeans, black t-shirt beneath an open, gray button-up, tarnished golden amulet, scruffy chin, and finally, those green eyes that she had not seen in almost nine unbelievably long months. Eyes that regarded her with a blend of relief and concern, shock and distaste. Huh. Twilight must have done a worse number on her than she'd thought.

"Hey." Dean smiled at her, and a little of the worry drained out of his gaze.

Her throat went dry. "Hey."

"Hi, Faith," Sam called over his brother's shoulder, walking into the room behind him and pulling up a chair with one hand. He collapsed into it, a tangle of lanky limbs, and reached up to probe at his right shoulder with a wince. "Couldn't wait for us to start the party?"

"Something like that," Faith said dryly as the other two men sat in the remaining chairs. Some of the oppressiveness dissipated from the room. "Looks like you've been doing a little partying yourself." She gestured to his injured shoulder.

"Sam had a run of bad luck," Dean answered for him. The brothers exchanged a look full of exasperation and dark humor. "He lost his shoe."

"Well, you decided you were Batman," Sam returned with an affectionate smirk.

"That's because I am Batman," he lowered his voice appropriately and squared his shoulders, somehow managing to loom threateningly even while seated. Relaxing against the plastic back of the chair, Batman disappeared, and Dean Winchester took his place. "Or I was for a while . . . Never trust a rabbit's foot, Andrew."

"Huh?" Andrew looked up from his notebook. Now that there were other people to keep Faith company, he had to get back to work.

"What's that, Drew?" asked Faith. She leaned forward, squinting to get a better look at the legal pad. "You working on another story or something?"

"Story?"

"Yeah." Dean answered Sam's question. "Andrew here's gonna be the one to write the next Harry Potter, earn millions, support the Slayer gang in their old age."

Andrew snorted, even as a faint pink flush spread across his cheekbones. It meant something, being teased. Being included. "They wish," he drawled. "No, sadly, this is nothing so interesting. There's just some . . . logistics that need to be worked out this evening."

His gaze met Faith's, and she knew that he was referring to transporting bodies back to their loved ones and figuring out a convincing cover story. "You want help?" she offered.

"No, I should get going." Andrew shoved the legal pad back into his bag. "Dawn and Satsu're meeting me at Buffy and Xander's hotel to work out some of the details. One of them should have your stuff – I'll bring it back when I finish. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Maybe three," he said as another thought hit him. "Spike's bug ship is landing, and I need to rendezvous with him as well . . . figure out where to put Angel for the night."

Dean half-rose from his chair. The hunter's expression shifted from jocular to menacing in a fraction of a second. "He's  _here_?"

The Watcher ignored him. It had been one of the worst days of his life, and frankly, Andrew was immune to posturing. He dealt with it constantly, from Xander or Dawn or Kennedy or one of the new Slayers. "Sun's still up," he said quietly, in the least objectionable way possible. "He'd fry. No, Satsu and a few of the other girls are guarding him. That's why I've got to go. I'm hoping we can transfer him to Spike's ship."

"Put him in the brig?" Faith couldn't help her hysterical giggle.

"Something like that." Andrew wondered if Faith realized what all of this meant, realized that he was now the closest thing to a senior Watcher that the whole damn Slayer association had at the moment, and that he was a hairsbreadth away from losing his mind. "I'll bring food back," he promised, slinging his messenger bag across his body. "And some sharpies – we've got to decorate that cast of yours."

"Thanks, Andrew. I owe you one."

Her brown eyes bored into his blue ones. Huh. Maybe she did know more than she was letting on. Figured – Faith tended to keep her knowledge of and opinions about inner-Slayer politics pretty close to the vest. Except for when it came to Buffy . . . Their tiffs were the stuff of Slayer legend, and Andrew would be lying if he said he hadn't entertained himself during some very dull war councils by doodling stick figure Buffy and stick figure Faith having arguments.

"No problem." And before his thoughts could get any more off track, Andrew turned on his heel and headed out to his beat-up Honda in the parking lot. There would be hell to pay, in sorting out the repercussions of today's events, and someone had to get started fixing things. Especially when so much of what had happened today could never actually be fixed. Oh, well. Might as well get to work.

* * *

"He seems nice," observed Sam as the curtain swished closed behind Andrew's departing back. "Little intense, though."

Faith grimaced. "It's been rather an intense month."

Having sunk back into his chair after the Angel debacle, Dean now looked at her probingly. "I was wondering when we were going to get to that."

The Slayer tugged her bedside table closer and popped the lid off of her dinner tray. "Cliff notes version, and I'm eating." She made a face at the steamed broccoli on the plate. "Ugh…."

"Better eat your vegetables, Popeye," teased Sam.

Dean pretended to smack his brother up the side of the head. "Popeye eats spinach," he said, gravely insulted. "Everyone knows that. I can't believe I'm related to you."

"Hey –watch it! I know it's spinach, Dean. I was just making a joke. Way to be trigger-happy."

Amused, Faith took advantage of their distraction to shovel as much food into her mouth as would fit. She chewed, swallowed, and went back for another giant bite while the brothers continued to bicker. By the time they pulled their act together, she had polished off the broccoli and was working on the fruit salad cup. Faith could feel two sets of expectant gazes on her, but she finished her fruit cup, feigning obliviousness, and then moved on to the wilted-looking sandwich. When her plate was finally clean, she glanced up. "What?" she asked innocently.

Sam had turned faintly green around the gills. "None of that looked anywhere in the realm of appetizing."

Shrugging her shoulders, the Slayer replied, "Haven't eaten since yesterday. Been a little busy. I'm not too far away from eating leftover fast food out of a dumpster at this point." At his look of mild horror, she went on, "What? You're telling me with all of that living from hand-to-mouth that you two do that you've never been hungry enough to dumpster dive?"

The hunter shook his head in the negative. "I don't think so."

"Really? Then you're lucky." Faith attacked her cup of chocolate pudding, the only food remaining, with a vehemence she tended to reserve for particularly obnoxious vampires and sparring with Buffy. "You want the full story? Here you go."

Retelling the epic saga of Twilight and Buffy felt almost as sordid and awful as living it had been. As Faith spoke, her eyes glazed over. The hospital room faded from her view, and she was back there – back in Tibet, back in SunnyD, back in the cave beneath the library, back on the one Hellmouth that had always made her life hell. She retained some fleeting sense of the Winchesters' presence, but they were mere shadows, faint ghost-like images of themselves in a world ruled by memory. She was surrounded by far more powerful shades, one of whom positioned himself at her right shoulder and made caustic, British remarks about the quality of the pudding.

When she finished, the Slayer snapped back to the world of the living, with its harsh, unforgiving electric light. She saw, more clearly than she had before, the lines of fatigue rimming her audience's eyes. "Anyway, that's the current state of affairs," she closed. "Just have a crapload of clean-up to do. And . . . I reckon everything will be a little messy for a while, till we figure out how to run things without Giles."

"What exactly was that thing – the seed of magic? What do you think breaking it did?" asked Sam.

"Not a damned idea. Buffy said something about there being too much magic or power in the world, about setting things right, making things even – I wasn't really listening that much, to tell the truth." Faith laughed bitterly. "Never do, half the time. Not when it's B doing the talking. You could ask Drew when he gets back. He'll know far more than I will." She blinked, suddenly morose.

"Poker?" Dean moved to change the subject. He held up a deck of battered cards and a large bag of peanut M&Ms that he had produced from somewhere.

A little of the pressure in her chest eased. "Texas Hold'Em?" she suggested, shoving her dinner trash to one side of the table. She cleared a space on the bed. Faith's gaze narrowed in on the M&Ms. "What, no stripping?" she joked.

"Well," drawled Dean, "since Sammy's here, thought we could keep our clothes on, play with these instead. Wouldn't want to make him blush."

Sam glanced from his brother to the Slayer and back again. "Thanks, guys," he said quizzically, wondering if he had missed something. "I appreciate that."

* * *

Andrew found them still playing when he returned around eleven that evening, Faith's ramshackle duffel bag gripped in one hand. Although they had been hard at it for hours, no one had very many M&M counters heaped in front of them, mostly because Faith and Dean kept eating them. Faith's eyes were getting hazy, and she yawned as the Watcher walked in.

"Get everything sorted?"

"Enough for tonight." His gaze flicked over the scant piles of candy. "Who's winning?"

"Faith's cheating," grunted Dean. "She's gotta be."

"I'm wiping the floor with them," Faith concurred gleefully.

"I doubt it's cheating." Andrew took the sole remaining empty chair. "She plays kitten poker with Spike and his friends, and she wins."

" _Kitten_ poker?" Sam's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "As in  _poker_  with  _kittens_?"

The Slayer grinned. "Yep. Demons love kittens. You want to save the fluffy things, you'd better learn how to handle your cards – and fast."

"Never pegged you for a cat person."

Faith's grin widened. 'Oh, I'm not a cat person, Dean. I'm a 'let's not eat kittens alive' person. Little bit of a difference there." She laid her cards on the bed, face down. "Well, I'm through for the night. You gents mind clearing out for a minute? Drew, you stay. I need those clothes you brought."

She waited for Sam and Dean to file out before accepting Andrew's help in getting off the bed. "Thanks," she said quietly over her shoulder, making her slow way to the bathroom. "How are things really?" Her question floated through the half-open door.

"Bad." Andrew proffered her suitcase. "Didn't have time for food or sharpies, sorry. I did get Spike's bugs to run your stuff through the washing machine on their ship, though."

"Just kick it along the tile." The toilet flushed, and crutches clicked against the floor. "How did Spike even get his mystery alien bug ship . . . thing?"

"No idea. He was too preoccupied with helping Satsu transfer Angel to the ship and then checking in on Buffy to talk much."

"Angel still catatonic?" Faith lifted her duffel up to the counter and unzipped it.

"Hasn't said a word. Everyone seems kinda relieved about that, actually."

The Slayer snorted. "I'm not surprised." She dragged a clean pair of underwear up and over her cast and then took off her hospital gown for long enough to do up the fastening on her most comfortable sports bra. In the morning, she could talk with Carlie about real clothes again. For right now, having her own underthings was amazing in and of itself. It removed one of the many unwanted levels of vulnerability imposed by this hospital stay. "What else should I know?"

"Huh?"

"You're my Watcher now, aren't you?" She found her toiletry kit and began brushing her teeth. "Least you are if I have any say about it. 'Ut oould eye oow?"

Andrew leaned against the bathroom door and sighed. "We're going to need you tomorrow. On crutches, in a wheelchair, whatever. As soon as you get out of the hospital, you're needed. There've got to be a couple more steady hands on the wheel."

"Hmm." Faith spit a mouthful of toothpaste water into the sink and watched it swirl down the drain. "Buffy won't like that."

"Buffy's . . . going through . . . a bit of a rough patch right now," Andrew phrased this with care to avoid directly criticizing their fearless leader. "She was really close to Giles."

 _What about me?_ demanded Faith's traitorous brain.  _I worked with him for the last year, when she was too pissy to talk to either of us for months at a time._ Her hand clenched around the toothbrush, and she fought the urge to snap it in half. Instead, she put her toiletries away and re-did the ties on her hospital gown.

The Slayer hobbled her way back to the bed and shifted herself back in while Andrew steadied the crutches.

"I should go, let you get some sleep," he mumbled.

"Drew . . . there's Ambien in my bag . . . if you want some."

"No thanks. I've got to drive. I'm gonna kip out on Spike's ship tonight, find out more about the bugs, keep an eye on Angel . . ."

Faith reached forward and hugged him impulsively. "You . . . when did you grow up so much?"

"War will make grown-ups of us all." He returned the hug and was the first to draw away. "You rest up, and I'll return in the morning with the best coffee Santa Barbara can provide. We can get back to solving the world's problems then." He waved once and was gone.

People murmured things outside the hospital curtain. The Slayer tried to pick it up, but the talking was too faint for her to comprehend much. She thought she could identify Nurse Carlie's alto, but that was about it. After a minute or so, the voices faded, and the curtain was brushed back.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"The nurse wanted to kick us out." Dean drew the curtain closed behind him. "I sent Sam with Andrew for the night – kid looked like he could use some back-up, and Sam's got more questions than Jeopardy. I figure staying here's cheaper than a hotel, anyway." He flicked off the room lights and removed his boots and overshirt.

"Budge up," he said, his eyes glinting in the reflection off the blood pressure and oxygen stat monitors.

Watching her leg carefully, Faith scooted to the other half of the bed. Dean slipped in beside her, his arm going around her shoulders and pulling her close.

"Are . . . are you  _holding_  me?" she asked in a strangled voice, not entirely sure how she felt about it if he was.

"Yes." A trace of uncertainty colored his voice. "That a problem?"

"Not really." She twisted onto her side as much as the cast would allow in order to look at his face. "Might be the best thing that's happened all day. Then again, it's been a pretty sucky day, so . . . "

"So that's not saying much." His chest rumbled as he chuckled. Sobering, Dean said gently, "I'm sorry about Giles."

Faith closed her eyes. "Me, too."

His hold around her tightened, and the Slayer turned her head into his shoulder. She lingered there for a long moment, allowing the warm solidity that was Dean to drive out everything else.

At length, she lifted her head and broke the silence. "Thanks for making the trip. Sorry you missed the action."

The darkness made it easier for both of them to be honest. "Hey. I didn't care about the big demon battle. That's not why I'm here."

The Slayer let this wash over her, taking in what he had said and what he had not said. "I'm not good with words, you know."

"Huh. Coulda fooled me. You talk enough."

"Dean." Faith pushed herself up on one elbow and kissed him to shut him up.

"You get all that?" she asked a while later, slightly breathless.

"Maybe." His smile was audible. "But I'm pretty slow. Tell me again?"


	50. Highway to Hell, pt 3

**June 19** **th** **, 2007, Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital, Santa Barbara, California, 5:50 a.m.**

Sunlight filtering in through the plastic window blinds was what slowly tugged Faith back to consciousness and away from the vague unsettledness of her dreams. That, and she really, really had to pee. Dean slept on. Sometime in the night, he had rolled onto his stomach. One of his arms dangled off the side of the bed, and his face was turned away from her, practically mashed into one of the pillows.

The Slayer eased herself off the bed and onto her crutches. She hobbled across the room, digging into the personal effects bag in search of her cellphone and stuffing it into her bra for the trek to the toilet. By the time she emerged, having struggled her way into a t-shirt and cut-off jean shorts, the hunter was awake and standing by the window. He had drawn back the blinds, his face bathed in the golden light of early dawn.

For a moment, Faith balanced in the bathroom doorway. With the streams of light hitting him like that, and despite the three days' worth of scruff and the rumpled clothing, he was beautiful. Beautiful – and fey. Her mind narrowed in that last word, and she wondered how many days were left. Faith's heart hammered with the beginnings of panic. She couldn't lose . . . she wasn't ready . . .

Before she could work herself into too much of a lather, he turned away from the window and saw her. "Nice Daisy Dukes."

"They aren't  _that_  short." She crutched further into the room.

Smirking, Dean patted her on the shoulder as he walked past her, headed for the bathroom. "You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."

Relieved by the return to normalcy, the Slayer rebuilt her pillow mountain and reviewed missed messages. There were three from Andrew, two from Becka, one from Spike on Andrew's phone, and one from Buffy. This last read simply,  _We need to talk._

_I'm here all day. Swing by whenever._ Faith fired off her response as Nurse Carlie knocked on the wall outside and came in.

"Sleep well?" she asked, her gaze catching knowledgeably on the pair of men's boots beneath a chair.

"Well enough." The Slayer shifted her weight and winced. "Can I get some pain meds with breakfast?"

"I'll check with Dr. Lassiter. He'll be by on rounds in the next half hour or so. You planning on going home today, huh?" added the nurse with a smile. She nodded towards the other woman's outfit. "Good choice, for a cast. Bet that boyfriend of yours is a fan."

Faith smiled tightly.

The nurse walked around the bed, reattaching the Slayer's blood pressure cuff and oxygen saturation monitor. "We need to get some morning values, just to reassure Dr. Lassiter. He's a stickler about having accurate vitals."

"Mmm." She held still as the cuff automatically tightened around her bicep. Perfusion lost, her fingertips tingled with numbness.

"Your boyfriend stayed all night," Carlie continued. She removed a digital thermometer from the wall and capped it with a sterile plastic probe cover. "Open. Stick this under your tongue."

The Slayer opened her mouth obediently. The thermometer poked into the underside of her jaw, at the back of her mouth, but at least it spared her from having to answer Carlie.

"The other girls wanted to make bets about how long he'd last," observed the nurse, unfastening the blood pressure cuff. "Spending all night on one of these uncomfortable things?" she indicated the visitors' chairs. "He's a keeper."

"I'm a what?" Dean poked his head out from the bathroom, flecks of water dripping down in a trail from his hair. He finger-combed the damp mess and flashed a charming grin at the nurse. "Morning."

Nurse Carlie gave him a blatant once-over. "Yep, you're a keeper," she repeated as the thermometer beeped. Discarding the probe cover, she made a note of the reading. "No fever, blood pressure is one-eighteen over seventy-two. Oxygen at ninety-eight percent, heart rate seventy. All good, all normal. Dr. Lassiter will be along in a minute."

She quit the room, leaving Faith and Dean alone with each other and nothing to do. Already, Faith was running out of patience with being in a hospital. She had questions to ask, problems to solve, panicked Slayers to soothe – none of which she could do while trapped in a sterile environment. The Slayer sent out text message after text message, reassuring Becka and Lily, checking in with Andrew, making sure that everyone else had survived the night.

The doctor wandered in about twenty minutes later. By sheer force of personality – although the Daisy Dukes didn't hurt – Faith got him to agree to let her go that afternoon. He had one of the medical students put together a thick file with copies of her record and a CD of her X-rays to take to her doctor in Ohio. Admittedly, this meant that Faith had to actually find a doctor in Ohio, but she considered that a small price to pay in exchange for escaping California.

Andrew and Sam were in and out all morning. They dropped by a little after eight, bringing black coffee, poppyseed muffins, and a multi-colored pack of permanent markers. The Watcher organized an impromptu art party and cajoled everyone into signing their names and drawing hasty self-portraits on Faith's cast. When he ran out the door after half an hour, he wheedled Sam into leaving with him, reluctant to lose the much-needed second pair of hands.

For his part, Sam was fascinated with this unprecedented glimpse into the world of Vampire Slayers and their Watchers. He couldn't quite wrap his mind around their profligate use of magicks and their confidence in their own powers. The strange alien creatures that sailed Spike's golden submarine were like something out of Star Trek. Besides, he and Andrew were engaged in a spirited running debate about the finer techniques of hacking.

Spike himself was worth another think and a half. The vampire had swanned into the ship's galley that morning, shirtless. While chain-smoking half a pack of cigarettes, he asked Sam about his brother as though they were friends. That alone threw the younger Winchester for a loop. Dean  _talked_  to vampires? Socially?

There seemed to be some history there, history that Spike would not elaborate on. The hunter could not wait to get his brother alone and ask him. In the meantime, he'd settle for accompanying Andrew on his various errands and keeping his eyes peeled.

* * *

Around ten, just after Andrew's second stop of the day, a frazzled-looking blonde strode into the room without knocking. Faith automatically sat up straighter, hiding her poker cards beneath the blanket. She squared her shoulders and sucked in her stomach, regarding the other woman warily. "Hey, B. Wondered if you were going to stop by."

"Faith." The blonde's words were clipped, and her mouth tightened. She spared a glance for Dean, waiting for Faith to introduce them.

The hunter rose from his plastic chair and extended his hand. "Hi. I'm Dean."

"Buffy." She shook it awkwardly. "I've heard quite a bit about you."

Although the tension in the room had just skyrocketed into the stratosphere, Dean refused to be ruffled. "Nothing too bad, I hope."

The Slayer smiled. "Not at all. If you wouldn't mind, though, there are a few things I'd like to discuss with Faith in private. Slayer business. You understand."

"It's okay if he stays," said Faith hurriedly, still trying to keep things non-confrontational. "I don't have anything to say that he can't hear."

"Nah, don't worry about me. I'll just go have a talk with Nurse Carlie, see about your discharge papers." Dean vanished behind the curtain before things could escalate further.

Taking one of the empty chairs, Buffy pursed her lips. "So that's your guy?"

Faith didn't bother correcting her. At this point, it wasn't really worth the effort. "That's Dean."

"He's . . . nice. How's your leg?"

"Getting better."

They had never been good at small talk, and nearly a decade of dancing around their issues hadn't really changed that. Faith simply sat in silence, trusting that Buffy would get to the point.

"Are you . . . what are your plans from here on?" asked the blonde Slayer uncomfortably. "Xander was saying that you'd probably leave, go travel with those hunters . . ."

"Not doing much of anything for a while." Faith gestured to her cast. "Thought I'd head back to Cleveland, keep things sane on that Hellmouth for a bit. Work out something with Robin while my leg's healing, I guess. You?"

Buffy shrugged. "I'm not sure yet. Everything's . . . everything's changed." She stood. "I should go. Check in on Dawn and Xander." The Slayer hesitated, giving rise to another awkward pause. "I didn't get a chance to thank you for yesterday." She said the words slowly, as if they felt strange in her mouth. "I . . . we . . . we might not have . . . Just . . . thanks."

"Anytime."

"Good luck, Faith." Buffy flashed her one last indecipherable glance and left.

"You, too," the brunette mumbled the words to an empty hospital room.

Dean came back in moments later to find Faith staring at her hands, absentmindedly shuffling the deck of cards over and over again. "That was Buffy, huh? I kinda thought she'd be taller."

The Slayer glanced up at him. "Why am I always the bad guy?" she asked, and although her tone stayed even, a vague tremor ran beneath it.

"What?" She wasn't making very much sense. "Did you punch her or something?" A chick fight – not only that, but a  _Slayer_  chick fight – and he'd missed it? Not very fair, universe.

Voice flat, Faith continued, "Every time I talk to her, every frakking time, she treats me like I'm eighteen again and I'm about to screw her over or betray her or . . . I saved her life yesterday, you know. And before when Gigi was trying to kill her. But it doesn't matter. It won't ever matter. To Buffy, I'll always be Faith the Screw Up. She's here, I'm like the village idiot. I'm twenty-six, Dean. I'm . . . different. I might even be good, one of these days. But Buffy will never see that."

"Does it matter?" he asked, settling himself into a plastic chair. "Does it make you any less different, any less good, if Buffy doesn't recognize it?"

"What do you mean?"

Dean paused, his mouth having gotten ahead of him. He took a second to order his thoughts. "I guess . . . I guess the question is if you've changed because you want her to forgive you or for some other reason."

She looked away. "I . . . I dunno. I'm just . . . I'm tired, Dean. I'm so tired of trying to make it right with her. But I'm never gonna be good enough."

The hunter reached for Andrew's pack of sharpies. He uncapped the blue marker and began doodling a fanged stick figure being staked by a stick figure with long hair on the inside of Faith's cast. "I don't know Buffy. For what it's worth, though, I think Faith's pretty damn fantastic. And I'd want her on my side any day - in a fight or out of it."

Finished with his drawing, Dean returned the sharpie to its container. "I'm starving," he said casually, ignoring the Slayer's half-crumpled expression as she tried to pull herself together. "How about we blow this place and go grab a burger?"

* * *

Everything worked out fine with the discharge papers. After stopping by a diner for something drenched in salt and grease, Dean and Faith tore a reluctant Sam away from his new world of information and playthings. They hit the road a little after two o'clock. Faith rode in the backseat, her leg stretched out across the leather upholstery. It took three days to drive the twenty-five hundred miles to Ohio, driving slower than usual to allow Andrew's rust bucket Honda to keep up. Although decades younger than the Impala, its engine was nowhere near as sturdy, and Andrew had to coddle it on transcontinental trips.

Back in Cleveland, Faith spent the first few days sleeping on any flat, cushioned surface available. Driving had not been kind to her leg, and she found herself taking ridiculous amounts of naps. During the day, she lived on the couch, sleeping, watching TV, reading, and trying to finish up her latest online class. It had gotten a little abandoned alongside the road in all the Twilight crap, but after three days of Jerry Springer marathons, even writing essays was attractive in comparison. With this immoblization, he would be caught up in no time.

Her apartment was bursting at the seams, constantly overflowing with visitors. If it wasn't Becka swinging by with snow cones after finishing a day at her internship with a local engineering firm, it was Andrew with a new video game that he had found for cheap and wanted to try out. Lily was off in Cleveland Heights doing summer stock theatre, and she dropped in at the weirdest hours, face caked in stage makeup.

Sam and Dean were never that far away, either. Half the time, if Faith was camped out on the couch, Dean was somewhere in the living room – cleaning his arsenal, making bullets, reading up on crossroads deals, playing Mario Kart with Andrew and Sam, or just sitting with her on the couch, arguing over who made a better Dracula: Oldman, Lee, or Lugosi. They forced everyone in the apartment to gather around for bad B horror movie marathons and traded tall tales while making pancakes in the kitchen.

On the nights when Becka or Lily were assigned to patrol, the girls tended to team up and drag Sam along with them. He ought to know how to properly stake a vampire, they argued, and Faith saw no point in denying them a little flirting time with someone who actually knew about monsters. Sam might protest a little, and dating him tended to have potentially fatal consequences, but what could it hurt? They were all adults, and Slayers could take care of themselves.

Besides, soon enough, the Winchester boys would hit the road. Lily would go back to complaining about how all the guys she interacted with on a daily basis were gay, and Becka would ask her what the hell she was expecting, being in musical theater. In turn, Lily would ridicule her best friend for whining about how bizarre engineering boys could be. Faith had heard this argument nearly a thousand times, and to her mild surprise, she still didn't mind it.

It made her relieved, knowing that, of all the Slayers in the world, at least these two had each others' backs. She wondered, sometimes, if she and Buffy could have turned out like that, had things been different. But then, thankfully, someone else wandered into the living room with food or games or a Slaying conundrum, and Faith left her muddled thoughts behind.

One late night, reminicing with Dean, she finally confronted the pictures of Buddy. To her surprise, they did not hurt as much as they once had. Perhaps that was because losing Giles had temporarily supplanted all other grief.

There were things they did not talk about, unless mentioned very obliquely. Giles was one of them. So was Dean's deal, and the fate of Angel, who remained catatonic aboard Spike's ship.

Still, it was a remarkably peaceful two weeks that passed while the Slayer waited to transition into her brace and get back to work. Faith could not recall ever feeling so content. For the first time in practically forever, she was genuinely happy.

In retrospect, she should have known it couldn't last.


	51. Highway to Hell, pt 4

**July 3rd, 2007 Cleveland, Ohio 9:00 p.m.**

"Since tomorrow's the Fourth of July, does that mean we can try out the flamethrower?" Becka asked from the back seat of the Impala, her gray eyes alight with excitement.

Sitting on the hump, squished in between the two Slayerettes, Sam squirmed uncomfortably. "You all have a flamethrower?"

Lily beamed. "Multiple."

"Why would you need a flame thrower?"

Behind the wheel, Dean smirked. "I believe the question is, Sam, why  _wouldn't_  you need a flame thrower?"

Faith decided to take pity on him. Earlier that day, her new orthopedic doc had taken new X-rays and finally okayed the move to a brace. Skin that had not seen the light of day for two weeks had been washed and shaved, and she had managed to talk her overprotective friends into letting her come out on patrol with them – for observational purposes only, of course. As a result, her mood was on the manic side of cheerful.

"There was an infestation of giant wyrms around last Christmas," she explained as they turned in to one of the main gates of Lake View Cemetery. "Guess they normally live in the marshy areas around Lake Erie. When the winter got a little too cold, they started migrating in towards the city. Found a huge nest in the sewers. One of 'em nearly bit Robin's arm off. After that, fire was the safest way to deal with them."

"It made a nice Christmas Eve bonfire, didn't it, Bec?" Eyes gleaming, Lily leaned around Sam to high-five her best friend.

"Very festive," concurred Becka. "If you don't mind the smell of roasting wyrm."

"Was this anything like the Mongolian Death Worm?" asked Andrew from his place in the middle of the front seat. "Or would you say it was more like the Worm of Lambton?"

"The Mongolian Death Worm? Isn't that the one that supposedly shoots acid and lightning out of its ass? . . . What?" Dean added as his little brother stared at him in surprise. "I read."

"No, not that." Sam waved a hand dismissively. "This thing shoots  _lightning_  out of its ass?"

"The official legend describes it as a tooth-lined rectum, but there are no truly reliable sources." Andrew's fingers tapped over the keys on his cell phone. "A couple of men in New Zealand are trying to raise the money to mount an expedition to photograph the Death Worm. Doesn't look like they've had much luck with funding so far."

The other occupants of the car shuddered at the words 'tooth-lined rectum.' They could have gone their entire lives without that particular mental image.

"TMI, Drew," said Faith, looking out the window at the gloomy cemetery.

It had been a long time since she had visited Lake View, undoubtedly the most chichi burial ground in the entire state. People did yoga in the mornings here, took botanical tours by bus, and held weddings in the two hundred and eighty-five acre expanse. The cemetery featured a giant concrete dam, memorials to Garfield and Rockefeller, and a chapel with its interior decorated by Tiffany.

Of all the cemeteries in Cleveland, it was Faith's personal least favorite. You'd need ten Slayers on horseback out riding fence every night just to patrol the place properly. Lake View contained the bodies and ashes of nearly a hundred thousand people, with seven hundred more joining their number each year. The "community mausoleum" alone, barely fifteen years old, had almost twelve hundred crypts and nine hundred niches. It was the DisneyWorld of cemeteries, and Faith had spent more all-nighters here than she'd care to remember.

You could track a vampire successfully halfway across the city, and still he'd manage to completely go to ground in Lake View. No matter how many times she led raiding parties into the community mausoleum or spiked the cemetery watering system with holy water, she had never managed to completely eradicate the fang population.

Over the last two weeks, confined to the couch, Faith had finally started giving proper thought to a systematic cleansing of Lake View, and a vague plan was beginning to germinate. She wanted to consecrate both of the ornamental lakes as well as the dam and all of the plumbing. Andrew was partway through doing the official research for her to find out how long the water would stay holy when contaminated with goose poop, as everything in Cleveland tended to be at this time of year.

Next, Faith had decided to badger Robin about purchasing a cadaver dog to track vampires. A dog would have a better sense of smell than she did, and it took years for the smell of dead-person to rub off a vamp entirely. If you could train the dog to follow the trail of moving dead people, instead of the stationary ones anyway. Otherwise he'd just be useless. Faith herself wasn't here consistently enough to have a dog, and most of the other girls on the Slayer Squad lived in no-pet apartments. Robin, on the other hand, had just bought himself and his new wife a decent place in the neighborhood where he was teaching school. Besides, he kinda seemed like a dog person.

Tonight, a nineteen-year-old girl named Trisha Norman was expected to rise. A sophomore at Case Western Reserve, she had gone out dancing a few nights before and had taken a smoke break in the wrong alley at the wrong time. Lily knew her from a theatre class and had actually attended the funeral earlier that afternoon. On her way home, she had taken a cast of the great lock at the main gate, leaving just enough putty in the socket to prevent the bolt from shooting all the way home.

Now she hopped out of the car and picked the lock, shoving the heavy gate open so that Dean could drive through. Rejoining the others, she offered quiet directions along the concrete paved paths of the cemetery to Trisha Norman's final resting place.

As they had expected, it was still undisturbed. Andrew stepped away into the dark trees to make a phone call while Becka and Lily used Dean as a demonstration and showed Sam some of the finer technique points of staking vampires. Faith settled onto a concrete bench across from the grave, her leg brace stretched out in front of her, and supervised.

Even though Lake View wasn't her preferred cemetery, the darkness at her back welcomed her home. Something ancient deep in her bones raised its head and stretched. After two longs weeks of recuperation, the possibility of danger was both exciting and enticing. It made Faith sit up a little straighter. Her eyes and ears adjusted to the dark, and she almost longed for an attack.

Since none of those seemed forthcoming, the Slayer contented herself with observing as Becka sprang onto Dean's back from behind, trapping his neck in the crook of her elbow. Becka pretended to cut off the hunter's air supply until he sank to his knees and then tapped him neatly on the lower left sternal border with a stake.

At least, that was how the maneuver was supposed to go. Dean, never the most compliant of vampire demonstration dummies, dropped into a tumble at the last minute, sending Becka flipping over his head. She landed flat on her back in the wet grass, and the hunter was on top of her instantly, his hands going for her throat. Becka braced her tennis shoes against the ground and twisted her hips, rolling both of them over so that their positions were exchanged. Her original stake now lost somewhere in the darkness, the Slayer pulled another from the inside of her sweatshirt and thumped it against Dean's ribcage with more force than usual.

"That wasn't very nice." She offered him a hand up as Lily and Faith clapped and Sam laughed.

Dean rubbed his throat, grinning. "Can't have you getting complacent."

They both turned to Faith. "How'd that look, boss?" asked Becka. She brushed some of the damp grass off the backside of her jeans.

"Pretty good. Lily, let's see you try it. That is, if Sam doesn't mind getting jumped by a co-ed."

Even in the dim light given by the Impala's headlights and Andrew's flashlight, abandoned on the bench next to her, the awkward red splotches spreading their way along Sam's face were clearly visible.

"Thought not," Faith added in satisfaction. She moved the flashlight to make room for Becka. "All right, you two. Go for it."

Sam was good few inches taller than Dean, so Lily took a running leap in order to get enough height. She landed solidly on the hunter's back, one of her arms wrapped around his throat, the other elbow digging painfully into his clavicle. In an attempt to follow his brother's lead, Sam dropped to his knees and twisted to the side.

Expecting this, Lily sprang free, releasing her hold at the last minute and landing on her feet. She danced backwards a few steps and then lashed out with a low sweeping kick from her left leg. The hunter dodged this feint easily, but he was unprepared for the springing kick that came from her right. Lily pulled the kick significantly so that her Converse only brushed the hunter's chin. Still, it was enough to put him off balance, and she had a stake pinned to his breastbone before you could say "Bob's your uncle."

"Nicely done," complimented Sam, panting. Dean and Becka whooped in appreciation.

"Not bad for a girl who used to hate running, huh?" Lily straightened and wiped her blonde hair away from her face. She looked to Faith for validation.

"Not bad at all."

The bushes rustled behind her, and Faith shot up onto her crutches. She had one stake in her hand and was preparing to throw it when the shrubs parted to reveal Andrew, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "What did you find out?" she asked.

"Spike's in the area, wants us to stop by the ship."

"What's he doing here?" Faith sank back onto the bench, slightly embarrassed and a little out of sorts. "I thought he was in San Fran, making nice with Buffy."

Andrew shrugged. "Apparently, she told him that they need a little space. He's decided to take her literally – did you know that ship of his has got the capacity for both intergalactic and interdimensional travel?"

"No, but I've got a feeling you're about to tell me," the Slayer mumbled under her breath. Noticing that the others were all looking at them, she said, more loudly, "Hey, don't let us distract you. Back to sparring. Sam, you play damsel in distress. Dean, you're the vamp holding Miss Samantha hostage. Ladies, try to rescue him – her. Whatever."

As Becka left the bench to get back to fighting, Andrew took her place. "Spike said for me to tell you that he's sorry about the lack of a heads up."

Faith raised her eyebrows. "Did he really?"

"Not in so many words. But I'm sure if he was a little less cranky that he would have mentioned something."

The Slayer exhaled heavily, her manic cheerfulness fading a bit more with every word. "This is about Angel, isn't it?"

Andrew did not meet her eyes. "Why would you think that?"

Lowering her voice further, she said, "I might not be able to walk right now, but I'm not dumb. That ship only works as a temporary solution – we both know that. Spike's as pissed about the Twilight thing as anyone else, and you know he and Angel have that weird love/hate thing of theirs on the best of days. Xander wants to kill him, Buffy probably can't bear to even think about him right now . . . who else does that leave? Willow? Isn't she still trying to deal with her magic withdrawals in Florida?"

She sighed. Not even watching Becka and Lily taking down the hunters was enough to cheer her up now. "Someone's got to figure this out, and if Buffy's not in this, then it's down to me and Spike. Where's he landing?"

"He thinks the dam. Be a bit less conspicuous, all the way out here."

"When?"

"Next fifteen minutes or so. I told him we'd be by after we took care of things here."

"I need a drink."

"Yeah."

With no alcohol available, Faith had to content herself with a cigarette. She smoked silently, only speaking up every now and then to give her Slayers feedback. They had come a long way since the last time she had been around to do this. Whatever their personal differences, Faith had to admit that Robin was an excellent Watcher. Of the fifteen girls on his squad, none of them had gone too far off the deep end, yet, and nearly a third of them were managing some mixture of normal life and Slayer life. Next time she saw him, she might have to tell him so. Maybe even buy him a cookie or something.

* * *

Shortly after ten-thirty, the ground started rumbling as Trisha Norman clawed her way out of her grave. Everyone stepped back, giving the vampire time to dig through the six feet of earth that separated her from freedom. Her bloody fingernails were the first to appear through the matted grass. It took another five minutes for Trisha to clear the dirt away from her face. A mass of dark curls poked through the breaking ground, and the dead girl gasped for a breath that would never come.

The blonde Slayer stepped forward and crouched a few feet away from the grave. "Hi, Trisha," she said, voice colored with regret.

"Lily?" the newly risen vampire asked tremulously, pushing her upper body out of the earth, her pale blue funeral dress darkened and stained with mud. In life, she had been beautiful, and even covered in dirt, she was still striking. "Lily, what are you doing here? What happened to me?"

"Vampires."

"Oh." Trisha climbed the rest of the way out of her grave and sat on the edge of the gaping hole. " 'Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord, When men are unprepared and look not for it," she quoted softly. "Richard the third. And Richard the second. 'Nothing can we call our own but death, and that small model of the barren earth which serves as paste and cover to our bones.' Literally, in this case."

She glanced around the clearing and took note of the other five dangerous-looking people. "I guess those rumors about you were true, after all."

"Rumors?"

But Trisha didn't answer. She kicked her heels against the ragged teeth of the grave. "How was my funeral? Did . . . did you go?"

"I did."

"Was it . . . Was it nice? Did . . . did my parents look okay?"

Lily shifted uncomfortably. This was a first for her. She had never had an actual conversation with a vampire before. Not one that wasn't Spike or Angel, and definitely not someone she had read Shakespeare lines with for a semester. " 'Death lies on her, like an untimely frost, Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.'"

Trisha brushed the dirt off of her arms and almost smiled. "'Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty; Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet is crimson in thy lips, and in thy cheeks. And death's pale flag is not advanced there.' Romeo and Juliet. Uncommonly kind of you. I suppose Hamlet's not entirely appropriate, is it? Bit suicidal. I didn't meant to die, you know?"

"Yeah."

"My mom was always harping on me about the smoking . . . guess she'll never have to do that anymore." Trisha's voice caught in her throat. To change the subject, she looked up again at the circle of people at Lily's back. "Do I get an introduction to your friends before you kill me?"

Lily winced.

"Oh, sorry. I forgot. It isn't killing if I'm already dead, is it? And I'm sure it isn't personal. The dead need to stay dead and all that. So . . . who're your friends?"

Sam stepped forward. "For her being dead, with her is beauty slain, and, beauty dead, black chaos comes again. Paraphrase of the Tempest. The name's Sam."

"Thanks, Sam," said Trisha politely, her almost-smile widening into the real deal. The others remained silent, and she looked from one face to the next. "You're all very attractive for people obsessed with the occult," she observed, her eyes lingering on the Winchester brothers. "Kinda makes me wish I wasn't dead. Well, that, and other reasons."

The vampire turned her unblinking gaze back to Lily. "I guess this is the big finale, huh?" Her fingers wormed their way through the tangled grass. "Can't say that I'm looking forward to it. 'But that the dread of something after death, the undiscover'd country from whose bourn no traveller returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.'"

"Hamlet."

"Yes. I'm not sure which I'm more afraid of – dying again or not dying again. It seems like an abyss of the unknown either way. Although something tells me I'm not going to get a choice here . . . Can I at least get all the way out of this thing?" Trisha gestured to the grave. "I'd rather not spend any more time in it than I have to. You could put me back later, if you wanted."

"Go ahead." Lily didn't have the stomach to tell her that there would be nothing left of Trisha to return to her grave, after. Only dust.

Trisha stood, her legs wobbling from disuse. She spun in a slow circle beneath the starry sky, displacing a significant proportion of the grave-dirt from her blue dress. Then the girl who would be forever nineteen stretched out upon the grass, her arms resting calmly by her sides, staring up at the constellations. She had always meant to study them, to learn all their shapes and names. There would be no time for that now.

She sat up and locked eyes with Lily, who had finally taken a stake out of her jacket. "I feel a little like Ophelia. Always wanted to play her – they're doing Hamlet next fall at the university." Her voice gradually crept up half an octave. "I was going to audition. Probably wouldn't have gotten the part, but it was something to look forward to."

Her eyes narrowed in on the stake. "One last quote?" the vampire asked plaintively.

"Go ahead," repeated the Slayer.

"Thanks. It seems like the quintessential one, you know." Trisha inhaled deeply. "'To die, to sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there's the rub, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come.'" Lying back down, she closed her eyes and murmured, "Do it. Now, please, before I lose my nerve."

Lily moved, and the stake pierced through layers of blue satin, plunging past intercostal muscles into the thick myocardium of her classmate's heart. Trisha Norman exploded into a cloud of dust.

The blonde Slayer rose to her feet, her blue eyes wide and wet, her face twisted. She swallowed once, twice, the stake in her hand burning against her skin. Attending Trisha's funeral earlier today had been bad enough, but this . . . Not even Shakespeare had words for this.

"Come on," she said to the others, choosing not to see the looks of awkward sympathy on all five faces. She was not going to let this affect her, not in front of all of them. "Let's get the hell out of here."

* * *

The drive to Lake View's concrete dam was quiet. As he followed Faith's somber directions, Dean glanced in the rearview mirror to scope out his passengers. What might have been unshed tears glinted in Lily's eyes, but then again, that might just be something reflecting off the dashboard. She was leaning slightly against Sam, and thankfully his brother was smart enough to keep his mouth shut about it.

This job was hard, even for Slayers. Sometimes it was easy to forget that. But Dean would be willing to bet nobody was forgetting that tonight.

He parked the car near the edge of the dam. A large, metallic thing was stationed halfway out across the dam, barely visible in the pale moonlight. Even from this far away, he could tell that it was roughly insect-shaped and big enough to fit four or five double-wide trailers.

Faith opened her door first and slowly began hobbling towards the ship in the light of Andrew's flashlight. Becka and Sam piled out almost as quickly and followed, leaving Lily alone in the back seat, gazing at her upturned palms in her lap.

"You coming?" Dean asked her, pulling the keys out of the ignition.

Lily lifted her head. "Give me a second. I'll be right there."

"I can wait," the hunter said easily.

They sat for a long moment, the Impala completely silent except for Lily's infrequent sniffles.

"I hate vampires," she mumbled at last, talking more to herself than to him. "I really, really hate them. I hate what they do to people. I hate what they did to Trisha." She sniffed again and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "But not as much as I hate what I did to Trisha."

"You did what you had to do."

"Yeah, I know. Doesn't make it any easier to forgive myself. 'A shadow passed, a shadow passed, yearning, yearning, for the fool it called a home. And it whistles through the ghosts still left behind. It whistles through the ghosts still left behind.'"

Dean twisted around in the front seat to look at her. "What's that? More Shakespeare?"

Lily unbuckled her seat belt and opened the car door. "Musical called Spring Awakening. I saw it over break with my parents in New York." Closing the door, she stared at the bug ship.

"Hey." The hunter dropped a hand onto her shoulder. "You did the right thing."

She turned to look at him, and Dean was taken aback by the abject misery in her face. "Then why do I feel like sh-t?"


	52. Highway to Hell, pt 5

**July 3rd, 2007 Lake View Cemetery, Cleveland, Ohio 11:00 p.m.**

Spike was waiting for them in the brightly lit gangway to his inset space ship, arms folded across his red t-shirt, his black duster billowing in the mild breeze. "Hungry? They're making quesadillas in the galley." If he saw the tear-tracks streaked down Lily's chin, he made no comment.

The hunter extended his hand. "Spike."

"Dean."

They shook hands once, and the vampire led the way up along the rusty iron gangplank into the belly of the beast. Up close and personal, the spaceship appeared to be built entirely out of reused scrap iron. Spike took them through a series of narrow passage ways and bulkheads until they ducked through a doorway into the kitchen. It was as narrow as the rest of the ship, barely wide enough for three people to stand abreast.

Andrew hovered by one of the metal counters, guarding a sizzling skillet and flipping tortillas. Behind him, Becka was grating some questionable-looking cheese. Somehow, Sam managed to look relaxed, although his head was practically scraping the ceiling. Dean filed the sight of his brother standing with his chin tucked to his chest away for future ridiculing.

"Where's Faith?" he wondered as Lily scampered past him on her way to help him with the cheese.

The others glanced up at him, and the wariness in their eyes was answer enough.

"She's by herself, with Angel, isn't she." It wasn't a question.

"Dean –" started Andrew placatingly.

"What the hell is wrong with you people?" the hunter demanded, glaring at all of them in turn. "He broke her leg, and you're leaving her alone with him?"

"Easy there, Cro-Magnon." Spike grabbed Dean by the shoulder and dragged him out into the hallway. "Faith can take care of herself, which you know. She doesn't need a hunter to protect her. So calm down and stop scaring the children."

Dean said nothing. He simply continued to glare, letting all of his frustration and anger be put to good use. "I want to be there," he growled. "Show me."

Spike shrugged. "Your funeral."

* * *

"Angel, I know you're listening. And it's about damn time you started showing signs of life – unlife – whatever."

Faith sat in a ramshackle metal chair just outside the cabin where Spike had stashed his grandsire. A pair of old handcuffs linked Angel's wrist and the radiator against the far wall, in case he tried to escape. She knew they were there more for the sake of the gesture than to serve an actual purpose. If the handcuffs were the only thing keeping Angel aboard ship, he would have been long gone by now.

Under other circumstances, she would have entered the make-shift cell and claimed a spot on the metal bunk opposite Angel's as her own. With the crutches, though, it wasn't worth the risk. On the very off chance this whole catatonic thing was a ploy.

"So . . . where to start . . ." The Slayer heard the noise of boots coming from down the hallway. She watched the hunter approach, his face like a storm cloud. Oh, well. Faith pointed to another empty chair and waved for silence. She was dealing with Angel right now. Dean could wait for later.

He took the proffered seat, shooting the vampire murderous looks. Faith ignored him.

"Angel, if you can hear me, tap your fingers, okay?"

The vampire did nothing. He simply sat there on the edge of the bunk, staring blankly ahead at the wall directly in front of him. His hands were draped across his knees, and cracks had appeared at the corners of his eyes and mouth from dehydration.

"Well, that was worth a shot," Faith said in an undertone to Dean. "Wasn't expecting too much. Spike can't get a single reaction out of him – he told Angel that he and Buffy had gotten engaged a couple of days ago, wanting to see what he'd do, and Angel didn't even blink. He just . . . sat there. And Spike's been having to force-feed him blood, which hasn't been working great."

Dean was still fighting the urge to jump up and ram a piece of wood through Angel's chest. It wouldn't take much time, less than half a minute, and this would be over. The hunter agreed with Lily completely. He hated vampires. They were worse than your average monster, because they didn't just kill you. Oh, no. Killing you wasn't enough. They turned you into one of them, leaving your friends and family to either die or have to kill you themselves. It was a special kind of sadistic.

And while Dean had built up a tolerance to Spike, Angel had always given him the creeps. Long before he ever met him, years ago, back when Faith was explaining the bite scars on her neck for the first time, he had looked forward to one day dusting him. That feeling had never really changed, although it had been suppressed and overlooked. Dean might not be a college graduate, but he was smart enough to predict the nuclear fallout with Faith if he dusted her vampire BFF. Didn't stop him from hating and resenting the fang job, though.

Taking his silence as agreement, Faith had turned her gaze back to Angel. "What are we going to do with you?" she said rhetorically. "You're not even talking. Doesn't stop everybody from being pissed at you. Spike's pissed at you, Xander's pissed at you, Buffy's pissed at you, I'm pissed at you – hell, Dean's pissed at you, and he wasn't even there."

She smiled at the hunter to remove any potential sting from her words, and Dean felt a little of his anger drain away.

"I don't know what's running through that head of yours, Angel. Knowing you, it's something broody and angsty. And damn right. You should feel guilt. You killed Giles." Here, the Slayer's voice cracked. She tilted her head back, closing her eyes, until she had herself under control again.

"You killed Giles," she repeated, more softly this time. "You killed him. Not Angelus. You, Angel. And some people . . . some people would say there's no coming back from that."

Faith sighed. "I guess I'm not some people. Look, Angel, you broke my leg. Well, I shot you with that poisoned arrow back in SunnyD, so I guess this makes us square. You . . ." she hesitated. "Dammit, Angel, if it weren't for you, I probably wouldn't be alive right now. Nobody thought I could come back. Not Buffy, not Giles, not Wes, not Cordelia, certainly not Xander or Red. Nobody but you."

This was a part of the story that Dean had not heard in detail before, and he leaned forward, interested.

She continued, unperturbed by his presence, her voice rising and falling with earnestness as she gazed piercingly at the silent vampire. It was as though she thought that if she looked at him hard enough, something would happen. "I wanted you to kill me," she said quietly. "I  _begged_  you to kill me. And you wouldn't. Because you believed that I could change. You believed that my soul could be saved. You believed in redemption. Redemption for me, when nobody else did."

Faith ignored Dean's intake of breath. Her world had narrowed to the uncomfortable chair beneath her and the vampire six feet away. She didn't care if anyone else heard what she said. This wasn't about them, and they didn't matter right now. All that mattered was Angel.

"I kinda hate you right now. Giles . . . he was a hell of a guy. And you just . . . snuffed him. Feels like a little of the light's gone out of the world. Angelus was right, you know. It hurts to the bone, and no matter how I try to bury it, I can't get the hole deep enough. I pretend, and I pretend, and sometimes I forget for half a day, but then it's back. It cuts me up inside, and it's . . . it's temping to try and make it stop. Part of me wants to hurt you in return – give in to the pain, spread it around a little."

The Slayer shook her head. "But I can't give up on you, Angel. Wesley pegged me right. I can never give up on you, not even when I'd kinda like to. 'Cause you didn't give up on me. I'm in your debt, you sorry bastard. And those kinds of debts can't ever be made right."

"What are you going to do?" asked Dean, breaking her reverie.

She looked at him as if she had forgotten that he was there. "Only one thing to do," she said in a voice filled with resignation. "Look after him until he stops being a vegetable."

The hunter got to his feet. "So that's it – no justice? No punishment for what's he's done?"

"If Buffy wanted Angel punished, she should have done something herself. Not sent him to me." Faith accepted a hand and let Dean pull her upright. She steadied herself on her crutches, ignoring the protests of her aching armpits. Only a few more weeks, and she'd be off these forever.

"Think about it like this," she said as they made their slow way through the tangled insides of the ship back towards the galley. "If Sam did something awful, something really, really, really bad, would you be able to punish him? Would you be able to hurt your brother if he went a little Dark Side?"

Dean frowned. He didn't like wandering down this thought road. It made him too uncomfortable. "Last fall, we dealt with this demonic virus thing out in Oregon. Sam got bitten, and it was only a matter of time until the infection spread, made him dangerous."

"What'd you do?"

"I sent everyone away, waited with Sam for things to get bad. I was gonna end it all. Shoot him, then shoot myself."

"Dean –" The sympathy in her voice made him recoil. He didn't need her damn sympathy, especially not when he was still peeved with her over her irrational attachment to that bloodsucker in the brig.

Only a tinge of that irritation made its way into his voice. "I was tired, Faith. Tired of . . . of everything. Of trying to live up to what my Dad wanted. Tired of knowing that I'd made a promise to waste my little brother – the kid whose diapers I changed. Up until Sam took off for California, he was my number one concern, you know? Feed Sammy. Take care of Sammy. Protect Sammy. Killing him . . . if I ever had to do that, it would be the end of me."

Faith stopped their progress further down the hatchway with an outstretched crutch. He recognized the signal and halted. Leaning up against a bulkhead, the Slayer watched him carefully. Dean moved to stand beside her, mostly so he didn't have to look into those brown eyes brimming with concern. Their shoulders brushed, and her silent support was enough to loosen his tongue that final, fatal degree.

"Maybe that's why I was willing to deal with a demon," he said quietly, the words echoey in the deserted hatchway. "It's not . . . I can't. I can't fail that charge. Taking care of Sam. It's still my job – it'll always be my job. And I can't fail him. I can't. So when I did, I had to do everything I could to make it right."

Dean shut his eyes tight as emotion rushed him. He tried to push it all away – the incomparable pain that resurged every time he thought about Sam's too-quiet body lying limp, lifeless, dead in that shack, the fear that he felt whenever the subject of his deal came up. He'd been doing a good job, the last few weeks, pretending that he wasn't a dead man walking. But now the truth of his situation came rushing back in, and panic threatened to undo him.

"I don't want to go to Hell, Faith."

Her hand found his, and their fingers interlocked around the cool aluminum of her crutch. "I know."

They stood without speaking for several minutes, while Faith ransacked her brain for something to say and Dean slowly got himself back under control.

Finally, he said, "I'm not a fan of Angel. Not after what he's done to you. I don't trust him, and I'm not sure that he's anywhere near good. But, I see why you can't kill him. He's family to you, isn't he?"

The Slayer nodded. "I don't think of it quite like that, but, yeah, more or less."

"And you'll forgive him anything – broken bones, dead friends, bite marks . . ."

"The way you'll always forgive Sam. But I won't forget, you know. I do have a line, somewhere. I just . . ." Faith made an expansive gesture with her free hand. "I guess I just don't know where the line is."

He laughed humorlessly, startled by how much he agreed with her words. "G-d, Faith . . . you have any idea how frakked up that makes us?"

"Pretty amazingly frakked up?"

"Yeah."

Another beat of silence followed this exchange, and then an unwelcome thought dawned on Faith. "You're leaving, aren't you?"

"What?"

"You and Sam. You're gonna take off pretty soon."

Dean shrugged. "Bobby's been calling us with cases the last couple of days. I've been turning him down, but it seems like you've got things under control here, so . . . I'd invite you to come with us, but . . . "

"But I've got my hands full with Angel, and you don't need an extra person to babysit."

"Mmm."

"So I guess this is goodbye?"

The hunter shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "We probably won't leave until the morning at the earliest. Maybe stay for the fireworks, flame throwers . . . whatever. And anyway, I'll drop by again in a couple of weeks."

"Yeah." Faith pushed herself off of the bulkhead. "Come on, we should probably go join the others. I need to talk to Spike, figure out logistics."

"Plus, Andrew was making quesadillas – wouldn't want to miss those." Dean's stomach grumbled audibly at the mention of food.

"If your Bigfoot brother hasn't eaten all of them already."

"True."

"We'd better hurry, then, before they all disappear down his giant gullet. I swear, that boy doesn't just have hollow legs – he's got hollow arms and a hollow spine to go along with it."

Dean chuckled, relieved by the lightening of the mood. "Think this is bad? You should have seen Sam when he was twelve. Now,  _that_  was bad."

By tacit agreement, Faith and Dean started walking along the passageway, leaving their fears and frustrations behind. There would be time in the morning to deal with all of it, but for whatever remained of tonight, they were going to do what they did best and pretend that everything was fine. It wasn't ideal, but it was expedient. And that would have to be enough for now.


	53. Please, Mr. Postman, pt 1

**A/N:** Again, the road's going to be a little dark for the next three or four chapters. Supernatural episodes mentioned are Red Sky at Morning and Fresh Blood. Onwards!

* * *

**November 16th, 2007 Burlington, Vermont, 8:00 p.m.**

The motel room door closed behind his younger brother, and Dean exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. Not that he didn't appreciate Sam or anything, but he was starting to get a little irritated with all the twenty-four-seven concern. And this week had been even more claustrophobic than usual, investigating a poltergeist at the University of Vermont. Ever since the showdown with Gordon, it had been all feelings, all 'you gotta open up,' all the time. If Dean didn't get a little breathing space asap, he was going to start hitting things.

Sam must have picked up on that, because when they got back to the motel that afternoon, he said there was a movie in town he'd been wanting to see – some indie flick about a mental patient. Did Dean want to go see it with him? Or would he mind too much if Sam took the Impala and went to see it by himself?

Nope, Dean didn't mind at all if Sam took the car. To the contrary – it was the best idea that he had heard all month. The clouded-over sky threatened snow, and he didn't much fancy getting caught in a blizzard on the way back from some ridiculous arthouse film. His entire body ached from getting hurled against a row of cafeteria tables by the poltergeist. Besides, there was no need for him to watch a movie about a psycho. Not when his whole life felt like a never-ending trip down the rabbit hole into permanent crazy town.

He found a brochure by the TV and ordered a pizza - triple meat, double cheese, deep-dish crust - the greasiest thing on the menu. While waiting for it to arrive, Dean flicked through the twenty-something channels on cable. He ran through them about three times, somehow managing to catch all of the infomercials and weather news reports. Nothing seemed interesting. The place didn't have Magic Fingers, and he wasn't really in the mood for pay-per-view.

With Sam out of the room, he had thought that the walls would stop closing in quite so much. If there were half the people in the space, it ought to have felt twice as large. But physics didn't seem to be working for him, and Dean's claustrophobia was just as looming, just as present. The hunter grimaced in frustration and dropped the remote to the carpeted floor. Tonight really just wasn't his night.

Sprawling out on the bed, he tossed his cell phone from hand to hand. Dean stared up at the popcorn-textured ceiling and tried to remember the time difference between Vermont and London. What was it – six hours? Seven? He always had trouble, mostly because he was never in the same time zone that he had been in last time. Finally, he came to the conclusion that it was five hours. So, one a.m. One a.m. wasn't too late.

Before he could second-guess himself, he was scrolling through his contacts and hitting 'call.'

Faith picked up on the third ring, a twangy guitar and a man's voice in the background. "Hi, sexy," she said breathlessly, sounding incredibly buzzed. "What brings you to my part of town?"

"You sound like you're having a good time."

She giggled uncharacteristically. Voice muffled, she replied to someone on her end, "Oh, it's just my brother-in-law. My sister's going into labor. I'll be right back."

The noise of the guitar faded into the background as a door open and closed. It was replaced by the sounds of vehicular traffic, horns and sirens. When Faith next spoke, her tone had completely sobered up. "Hey. Sorry about that. There's this metal band . . . Dragonforce . . . Dumb name, but they're pretty good, actually. I've been, uh, hanging out with the bass guitarist."

"So you're smoking pot and I've got a uterus?" he asked teasingly. Try as he might, Dean couldn't help but envy her freedom. Too bad you couldn't get pot delivered.

"I needed an excuse to step out for a minute."

"That the best you could come up with?"

The Slayer chuckled. "Not so good at the whole making stuff up thing right now, I guess."

"Last dance with Mary Jane?"

"Mary Jane, Tila Tequila . . . been a whole lotta dancing tonight. You?"

"Exorcised a poltergeist, ordered something drowning in grease to make the bruises go away."

"You have a monopoly on getting thrown down stairs or something?"

"Or something. It was half a cafeteria this time."

"Eugh. That sucks. What's Sam up to? Other than seducing grandmas, I mean."

Dean laughed. He'd forgotten that he'd told her about Sam's septuagenarian admirer. They hadn't talked in a while, not since she'd found out that she was the main recipient of Giles' will and gotten insanely busy with figuring out how finances worked. When had he told her? It wasn't the sort of thing that he'd usually take the time to text, and he'd kind of gotten preoccupied with being pissed off at Bela.

The pieces slowly clicked into place. Right. Sam had sent her a picture of the tuxedo, setting off the next round of Winchester Prank War, and he'd retaliated by giving Faith a detailed account of Sam getting felt up by old women. It had been deeply, deeply satisfactory.

"He's indulging his geeky side – catching some nerd flick or something. How's Angel?"

"Monosyllabic."

"That bad, huh?"

He could hear the discomfort in her voice. Whatever was going on with Fang boy, Faith was not happy about it.

"Angel reads a lot," she said grudgingly. "He sits in Giles' study and pours over every diary G-man ever wrote, every chronicle he collected or annotated. Not sure why he's doing it, not sure that it matters much. I've been meaning to have a talk with him about getting out of the apartment. It's unhealthy. And it creeps me the hell out," she added under her breath.

And there it was, the thing that she'd been running from. Funny, how that worked out. One or the other of them always seemed to be running from something.

"I've got an idea," she went on, suddenly more cheerful. Maybe it was the marijuana talking. "When I get back tonight – tomorrow – whatever, I'm gonna lay down the law. If he wants to mooch in my house, reading my books, drinking my blood –"

Dean started violently. " _What_?"

"Pig's blood that I buy at the butcher's . . . yeah, I could have said that better. Sorry, Dean. You still breathing?"

The hunter subsided back onto his lumpy mattress. "Barely."

"It's all weird – it's my stuff, but it isn't my stuff. It's my money, but it isn't my money. It's all still Giles's, always will be. But if Angel's gonna campaign for moping champion of the year, he can put that research to good use – he can find a way to break your deal."

He had hoped that they wouldn't get here, to the thing that he was running from. It was part of why he hadn't called her as much lately. The timer was halfway out, and Dean was slowly starting to accept the inevitable. Hell, he'd even let Sam muck about under the hood of his baby. But he wasn't willing to stop pretending completely. Not with her. Not yet.

"I should go," he said as the room pressed in on him again. It was like he was stuck in that trash compactor on the Death Star, and he couldn't find any piece of steel long enough or thick enough to wedge the walls apart. "The delivery guy just knocked," he lied.

Some of Faith's ebullient cheer subsided. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Yeah."

"I will."

"I know. Enjoy the rest of your night."

"Yeah. You, too."

* * *

**December 14th, 2007 London, England, United Kingdom 11:45 p.m.**

She hadn't planned on celebrating her twenty-seventh birthday. Faith wanted to ignore the whole thing, just let it pass. Sure, yeah, she was another year older. And, as Angel so helpfully reminded her over midnight crêpes the night before, not one in five Slayers lived this long. But it didn't really mean anything. Not to her.

Couldn't convince the rest of them of that. Becka and Lily had saved up from their summer jobs and were flying in to celebrate tomorrow. She'd have to figure out how to get to Heathrow and back to the apartment without taking the wrong subway line and almost getting lost. Again. Andrew had called from Rome that morning to belt some sappy song at her in bad Italian. Faith didn't speak Italian, but she was pretty sure that his pronunciation was a hair south of abysmal. Dean emailed her a photo of him and Sam at Biggerson's, both of them with giant pieces of cake, and the caption, "Told lies. Got cake. Worth it. Happy Birthday."

Now, despite her wishes, Faith couldn't forget that it was her birthday. She couldn't forget that she was twenty-seven. And so when Angel slipped out around ten to go patrolling, she fell into a brown study, sitting cross-legged on the floor of Giles' living room, doing the kind of hard thinking that she generally avoided at all costs.

The Slayer couldn't help but overanalyze all of her life decisions up to this point, including breaking it off with the guitar player the week before. He was hot, and the sex was great, but he had started talking about commitment and trying to take her out to a nice restaurant for dinner. That had been the end of things. Faith had zero interest in commitment or boyfriends or romance. There were more important things going on.

Perhaps, had Faith realized in some distant corner of her mind that this was a quarter-life crisis, she would have been a little more careful, a little less reckless. But after nearly two hours of brooding, it all became too much. Something had to give, something had to change, and the Slayer was a hundred and ten percent fed up with research and patrolling and fighting two-bit vampire henchmen. She needed to act.

She cleared Giles' study, pushing the desk all the way up against the bookshelves and rolling up the heavy rug to reveal the polished wooden floor beneath. Three months of living in this apartment, and Faith knew where everything was, could find books and magical ingredients in the dark. Only feeling slightly guilty, she flipped through  _Basic_   _Demonology_   _for_   _Initiates_. It was her first time at this, and she was going to need some pictures.

Rummaging through the desk, she found what she needed: candles, chalk, incense, matches, and an obsidian bowl. Apparently, Giles' old demon-summoning habits had died hard. Faith drew a large chalk circle on the wood floor and then enclosed it in a single triangle, drawing a peculiar symbol in each of the three corners. The Slayer frowned as she drew, peering closely at the images in the text. She hoped they were right. If not, this was going to end badly.

Finished drawing, she placed the bowl in the center of the circle and filled it partway with incense. She positioned one candle at the tip of each triangle corner and then lit them. Fully prepared, the Slayer pressed on before she lost her nerve.

"Ad construgendum, ad ligandum eos, pariter et solvendum. Et ad, congregantum eos, coram me. Olvikan," she added for good measure, and dropped a lit match into the bowl of incense.

It went up in a great gust of fire, reaching almost to the peaked ceiling. When the flames died down, she gazed across the smoke at her new guest.

"Hi, there, little firecracker," beamed the thing that had been Richard Wilkins I, II, III, and, at the very end, a demon. Also, the first reliable guy that she had ever known. He was much as she remembered, thick brown hair combed back in bald defiance of his receding hair line, tie knotted exactly in the midline, his green eyes wide and smiling. It was him, not the First, not some whacked-out coma nightmare, and it made something deep inside her ache.

"First time summoning a demon? Knew you'd be just as good at this as you are at everything else. Have to admit, I was kinda surprised when I felt your call. Did you find that little prize I left for you? I thought it might be right up your alley, give you a nice chance to go out with a bang! Always likes a show, that was my Faith."

His sheer excitement petered off slightly at her continued silence, but then the Mayor bounced back, optimistic as ever. "And wow, just look at you! I always know you'd grow up so beautiful. Kind of young lady any father figure would be proud of. I'm thrilled to see you – just abso-stinking-lutely thrilled, but you've got me on tenterhooks with curiosity. Curiosity killed the cat, they say. Speaking of cats . . . cat got your tongue?"

Now that he was here, the words seem to fall out of the back of Faith's brain. She wasn't sure what to say or where to start or why in Hell she had ever thought this was a good idea.

"Hi," she said at last, once she had her metaphorical feet under her. "I . . . I did use the katra."

"Didn't it work?" he asked, mildly taken aback.

"Yeah, it worked . . . until Buffy got the chance to switch us back . . . and then . . . a whole lotta sh-t happened."

The Mayer raised one eyebrow forbiddingly. "Now, now, Faith, there's no call to be using language like that. Even when you're severely disappointed." His voice softened. "What happened?"

Faith shrugged, incredibly uncomfortable. This was worse than introspection. She held up her hands in gesture of helplessness. For some reason, she was now fighting the urge to cry. It was just . . . she had forgotten how he used to look at her, how nobody had ever really looked at her with that much concern. Nobody really did now, either. Sometimes Dean, when he was in the middle of a panic, but not often, and never this much. His eyes didn't melt the way the Mayor's did. And never anybody else.

"Jail?" Her voice cracked on the last consonant. "Jail and another apocalypse and redemption and . . . it's been a long nine years," she concluded, angry at the moisture in her eyes.

"You go back to being friends with Glinda?"

"Yeah . . . I . . . it's complicated. Killing people . . . I didn't like how I felt." He wouldn't understand. Chances were, more demon than human, the Mayor couldn't actually understand. This was the best explanation she could come up with.

"So why now, Faith? I'm not saying that I'm unhappy to see you. Quite the contrary. You're the most interesting thing that's happened all year. And even if you decided to be that dreary Watcher's Council's poster Slayer, you'd still be my girl, and I'll always be proud of you. But why now? I may be old, but I wasn't born yesterday, you know." He waggled a finger at her. "What do you need from me?"

"I need some information."

"Anything you want, kiddo. If I know it, you can know it, too."

"How . . ." The Slayer hesitated and then took the last jump. "How can I break a crossroads deal?"

Richard Wilkins' face clouded over. "Don't tell me you got so desperate that you made some backroom bargain with those lowlife traveling salesmen, Faith. I won't believe it. You know you've always got better options than that."

"It's – it's not me. It's for a friend. I need to find a way to break his deal. If I don't, he's gonna die."

The Mayor leaned forward across the flames, studying her eyes carefully. Less jovial, he said in a serious voice, "It's a complicated thing to do, crossing a crossroads demon, what with their mangy little whippersnappers always sniffing you out. Only the demon in possession of the contract can amend or rescind it, which means you've got to track them down. And sometimes they sell their contracts, handing them over to their bosses or someone even higher up. I think you'd better start from the beginning. Tell me everything you know about this contract, starting with the person who made it."

Giving up on a losing battle, Faith blinked and allowed the tears to flow. Of all the people to cry in front of, Richard Wilkins was probably the safest. "It's a long story."

"I've got all the time in the world."

"The guy who made the deal . . . His name is Dean."

* * *

Faith talked. It felt like they sat there for hours, while she explained about the Winchesters and the terminal bad luck that ran through their family. Of course, the Mayor was not content just hearing about the person she was trying to help. He wanted to know about her – anything and everything that had happened in the past eight-plus years. And for the life of her, the Slayer could not think of one good reason why she shouldn't tell him.

It wasn't as though she had any secrets that people could use against her. Everyone who was anyone on the monster grapevine already knew the story of the Dark Slayer – it had spread like wildfire during her incarceration. Demons loved it when a Slayer was on the ropes, and they had eaten up the tale of girl gone bad gone to prison. People knew her past, if they knew anything about Slayers. Not a thing Faith could do to get her anonymity back now.

The only potentially dangerous secret she had was Dean, and he was the reason she'd done this summoning, anyway. So she explained everything to Richard Wilkins the whatever he was, as they both sat on the bare floor of Giles' study.

At the end, when she had finally exhausted her narrative, she looked up from the still-glowing embers in the obsidian bowl and met the too-understanding eyes of a demon. She hated this, how he could understand her better than people who had known her for so much longer. Guess motivation really did count when it came to relationships.

The Mayor shifted position, stretching his hands out in front of him. "Well, you've gotten yourself involved in quite the to-do here. Not to mention, quite worked up," he commented, withdrawing a pristine white handkerchief from his breast pocket and lobbing it over the fire to her.

Surprised, she caught the hankie on autopilot. "What - do I look like a raccoon or something?"

"You might want to blow your nose," said Richard Wilkins kindly.

Faith blew her nose while the demon continued to stretch.

"Goodness, I'm getting a little old to sit criss cross applesauce. Mind your manners, young lady," he added at Faith's poorly-hidden eye-roll. "If I'm not too old to say 'criss cross applesauce,' then neither are you."

"Sorry…"

She was, as always, instantly forgiven. He grinned at her, the disrespect apparently already forgotten. The ease with which he forgave hurt a little, too, making her stomach cringe.

"Question is, where do you want to go from here? You've decided that you want to save this boy, and, Faith, I gotta say, I hope he's worth it. Not even that Angel you used to be so fond of was good enough for my little girl."

"Angel's a man-bitch," Faith said flatly. Six months in, and she was still kinda pissed at him. It was a low level of pissed-off-ness, but it had phenomenal staying power. Even the crêpes he'd made for her as a post-Slaying happy birthday treat last night hadn't gotten him much closer to her good books.

It was a mark of how much the Mayor detested Angel that he didn't reprove her language. Instead, the demon simply smiled.

"Plus, I'm not . . . I'm not in love with this guy." For some reason, it was critical to her that the Mayor got this. Although she could not have explained why, she needed him to understand her. "He's just a friend."

"Friends is a good place to start."

Faith didn't quite get it, how he switched roles from evil boss to surrogate father to gossiping great-aunt at less than the drop of a hat. "Love, romance, the whole nine yards - not really my thing. You know that."

"Just you wait until you meet the right boy – or girl. I hear that's very accepted these days."

"Can we focus, please?"

"All right, all right, I know romance isn't cool with the kids anymore, and it's all about sex, sex, sex, but –"

"Focus, boss." The title slipped out.

Richard Wilkins' smile grew even brighter, if such a thing were possible. "I missed you. No one in Hell's quite like you. They're all angry and bitter and full of boring remorse. They aren't bright like you. My little firecracker."

She shook her head. Couldn't listen, couldn't internalize whatever it was he was saying. "Look. How do I save Dean?"

"It's as easy as pie – and just as complicated. You ever try to make a double crust, apple pie by hand? Lattice-topped and everything? It can be devilishly tricky. And speaking of tricky, I'll ask around, see if I can find out who's holding the contract. We get that, you find a ritual to summon that particular demon, and you can try to bargain with that demon to save your little friend. If they're willing to bargain."

Faith's stomach plummeted. "And if they're not?"

"Then I'm sorry, jitterbug, but there's nothing else you can do. Until . . ."

"Until?"

"Until he gets down here. Then we may be able to work a little magic."

The Slayer nodded, filing all of this away. She'd have to come back later, go back over this conversation, see if there was anything she missed. Before she let him go, though, she did have one final question. "Thanks. Can . . . can I ask you something?"

"Fire away."

"Why are you willing to help me? You . . . didn't ask me for anything, didn't ask me to make a deal. What's your angle here, boss? What's in this for you?"

"Oh, Faith." He sounded truly upset. "You wound me to the heart. Which is saying something, because technically I don't have one anymore. Isn't an old demon allowed to be sentimental? I like to think that you'll always be my little girl – even if you choose to ally yourself with riffraff like that Watcher's Council. And I'm always going to be looking out for you, whatever way I can."

She wasn't sure how much of this she believed, but Angel would be back soon, and she needed to clean up all evidence of occult activity. After a brief exchange of goodbyes, she released the Mayor back to his Hell dimension – he'd never clarified which one he was in, exactly, - and cleaned the study.

As she wiped down the floorboards, Faith reflected that the Mayor had never actually promised that they would succeed. Another double-edged sword, just like everything else in her life. Still, even if it didn't pan out, she had done  _something_  tonight. And that was a good first step.


	54. Please, Mr. Postman, pt 2

**A/N:** Supernatural episodes referenced are Malleus Maleficarum, Dream a Little Dream of Me, and No Rest for the Wicked.

Song credits go to Peter, Paul, and Mary as well as the ever-lovely James Taylor. If the songs in this chapter seem unfamiliar, I highly recommend finding them online and giving them a listen - particularly the JT one.

* * *

**January 12th, 2008, Sturbridge, Massachusetts, 7:30 a.m.**

Dean answered his phone with a gruff "I hate witches."

"Don't tell Willow that."

The hunter caught his brother's curious expression and mouthed, "It's Faith." Putting the phone on speaker, he continued, "They're disgusting."

"Not gonna hear any arguments from this end."

"Morning, Faith."

"Hey, Sam. How are you? Becka said you haven't been texting her back."

Surprised, Dean glanced along the front seat. "What? You got somethin' to share with the class, Sammy?" he taunted.

Sam squirmed uncomfortably. "It's nothing. We've just been comparing notes – she and Lily are working on the demon hunt, too, trying to get the name of that crossroads demon that I killed."

With great self-control, the hunter kept from whacking his brother upside the head. He still couldn't believe sometimes that Sam had been angry enough and dumb enough to kill the one demon who had known the location of his contract. It had been a damnfool move, and whenever Dean thought about it, his panic worsened. But making Sam feel like crap about it wouldn't do anyone any good, and so he tried to keep his own mouth shut. Sam was doing a fantastic job feeling guilty all by himself.

"Sure, Sam," Faith laughed. She sounded better than she had in a while, and for a moment Dean allowed himself to hope. If Faith was this chipper, maybe she'd found something.

"Kinda early for a social call, Faith," he said in an effort to bring her back around to the point.

"Sorry – I'm not great with the time zones. Angel's been dragging me into his melodramatic hellhole of redemption. He thinks he needs to resurrect Giles."

" _What_?" demanded Sam.

"Yeah, it's not a great idea. His plan's got about a thousand holes in it – and that's without me actually sitting down to think about it. But he's full steam ahead, and I'd rather have him talking than not, so we make do. I let him drag me along on his braintrust ideas, and I get to strong-arm him into more demonology. So far, so good. Anyway . . . came across a whole truckload of new books at an occult estate sale yesterday. You want us to tackle 'em all, or would you rather I send some 'cross the pond?"

Dean struggled to keep his tone nonchalant. "I thought you were heading this way in a couple of weeks?"

She had been babysitting Angel since July and had been pouring through the Watcher's Council's archives in London since September. Every occult literature treasure trove was as empty as the last, and the hunter knew instinctively that there was nothing new to be discovered. They were up against a brick wall. Unless and until they knew which demon held all the power, any attempts to break his deal by magic would be useless. At best, they would simply fail, unnoticed. At worst, Sam would die and be dragged down to Hell in Dean's stead. That wasn't an acceptable alternative.

It was January now, and Dean was ready and willing for her to admit defeat and come back to the States. Besides, she had promised to make it for his birthday in a couple of weeks. It would be his last birthday in his twenties –  _his last birthday ever,_  whispered a traitorous voice that Dean was doing his best not to listen to. He wanted to take Sam, hit up Vegas, party like he had when he was twenty-three. And she had promised to be there.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I don't think I can make it."

"What?" he asked sullenly, aware of Sam's worried eyes off on his right and not giving a damn.

"I got a voicemail from my parole officer yesterday. The FBI's been poking around again, asking about my whereabouts, my associations with a pair of career criminals called the Winchesters. I've told her that I don't hang out with felons, and she said that she believes me - or maybe she doesn't give a crap what I do – it's kinda hard to tell with her. But I got the impression that she's under a crapload of pressure to provide the feds with something."

This took the wind right out of his sails. "Oh."

"Yeah. I figure they'll have a watch on my passport, and I don't want to lead that Agent whatshisface anywhere near you guys, so . . . you could always fly here?"

"I don't do planes," Dean said gruffly.

"Right, yeah. I knew that." An awkward pause commenced. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," the hunter lied. He took the phone off of speaker and pretended to look at the screen. "I've got another call coming in. Good luck with the books. Let me know if you find anything."

"Okay-"

He hung up before the end of that second disappointed syllable and dropped his phone into his shoebox of cassettes. Turning the radio back up, he ignored the puppy dog looks that Sam was shooting his way and stomped the gas pedal into the floor. He had to get away, had to fill his ears with thrashing drums and wailing guitars. Any noise but the voices in his head. Anywhere but here.

* * *

**January 28th, 2008, London, England, 11:29 p.m.**

"I need a favor."

"What's up?"

"There's this chick. Goes by the name of Bela Talbot. She's a professional thief. Magical antiquities, black market deals, that whole shebang. Speaks with some kind of English accent or something. She stole the Colt. I need it back. We've been trying to track her for the last week, but she's gone to ground. Can you look into the international side of things?"

"You want me to track her down?"

"I want to know everything, down to what she had for breakfast the day she turned twelve. You got that?"

"I'm on it."

"Thanks."

He hung up before she could get another word in, which was just as well. Their conversations had gotten a little . . . tense . . . lately, and between trying to keep Angel from going off the deep end in his resurrect-Giles campaign, spending six hours a day researching demon deals, and trying to form a contingency plan with the Mayor, she was running a little ragged. To make things more complicated, she'd hooked up with the bass guitarist guy again last night, in an attempt to relieve some tension, and now he wouldn't stop texting her.

This request felt like a second chance, an opportunity to make things up to Dean. She might not have been able to make his birthday, but she could find out whatever there was to find out on Bela Talbot. Time to crack open Giles' old address books, start making some phone calls. At the very least, it would provide a change for a day or two.

* * *

It took Faith two weeks, exhausting every still-living contact in Giles' personal directory with ties to the occult. She spoke with small bookshop owners in Dover, made late-night conference calls with Cairo artifact dealers, and even paid a visit to the National Archives to sift through marriage and birth records. At the end, while she nearly a hundred pages of sour anecdotes, she had still not been able to unmask the real person behind the mercenary façade.

That alone was incredibly frustrating, but there was one small light at the end of this research tunnel. She had a phone number. And not just any phone number. This very exclusive secure line connected potential customers directly to Ms. Talbot. Faith had already contacted a technopagan hacker working around the Old Street Roundabout, but their attempts to put a trace on the number failed. It was highly encrypted against mundane hacking and securely warded against the mystical kind.

She was skimming the anecdotes a final time in search of anything that could lead to a tangible lead, when an email came through from a museum curator in Monaco. Faith glanced at the contents of the email. The curator didn't have much to say that was new. A year previous, a very famous doll, one that was rumored to be haunted, had been stolen. Police suspected the museum publicist, who had held her post for only two weeks and had vanished the same night as the doll went missing.

Unlike everyone else Faith had talked to, however, the museum curator had a photograph and had attached it at the bottom of the email. She stared at the photo in shock. That face . . . that face was familiar.

The Slayer hunted through her hard drive in search of one particular folder. She hadn't accessed it in years, but somewhere on her laptop were the surveillance photos Giles had taken at Lady Genevieve Savidge's formal ball. After a couple of misdirects, Faith found the pictures she was looking for. Lips pursed, she flicked through the images. If she remembered correctly, there was one particular photo . . .

Aha! And there it was. In one frame, Hope Lyonne stood in a small group of women with Gigi Savidge, all dressed to the nines, all smiling and laughing. With them was Bela Talbot. Faith frowned at the younger Bela in the picture, trying in vain to remember her name. What had she called herself that night? Lucy something. Lucy . . . Lucy Harker.

Faith smirked. She was still seven leagues behind, but she'd just moved one square further across the chessboard. She dialed the number.

"Hello?" answered a female voice in poshly accented tones.

Reaching deep inside, Faith grasped for the fragments of Hope Lyonne as she had been. "Hello, yes. I am trying to reach Bela Talbot. I am interested in acquiring a particular piece of history and was told that she might be of assistance."

"Congratulations. You're in luck. I am Bela Talbot, and I am currently accepting commissions. What sort of history did you have in mind?"

"My father is rather unfortunately obsessed with the American Wild West. He also has a predilection for making all sorts of nasty enemies who are . . . rather difficult to manage. They tend to cling to life by some unexpectedly tenacious means. I had heard there were certain pieces of Americana that tend to be more effective at protection – both the reactive and proactive types."

Bela laughed lightly into the phone. "I think I know what sort of thing you mean. Before we proceed any further, I should inform you that my rates are by no means substandard."

"Of course. If you want the best, you pay for the best. I would expect nothing less."

"Excellent. Do you have any more specifics about the desired acquisition? Does your father prefer swords, mojo bags, rare curse ingredients?"

"He likes firearms, actually. Pre-Civil War, when he can acquire them. There's one legend that he is overly fond of. Daddy likes to believe that Samuel Colt made a pistol during the ride of Halley's Comet in 1835 that could kill anything. It's only a rumor, I'm sure, but if you had anything along those lines – or knew of anything along those lines – we could make it extremely worth your while."

"I don't know of anything just at present, but given a little time, I'm sure I can find something that would suit your father. What did you say your name was?"

"I don't quite see how that's necessary –"

"For security purposes, you see. If I am going to accept your commission, I need to know a little more about you, first."

Faith swallowed down pure bile. "Last name is Lyonne."

The mercenary thief's voice changed, trading its mellifluousness for venom. "Hope. You bitch."

"Lucy. I'm surprised you remembered."

"You were Gigi's houseguest when she died. Doesn't take much effort to remember a name, a face. I thought your voice sounded familiar."

In another time, the mention of Gigi would have filled Faith with guilt. But she'd been handling things a little differently of late, exorcizing her demons by summoning one. She threw herself whole-heartedly into the con, relishing in the power of being nasty. Faith had been playing nice for far too long. "I hardly see how any of that is relevant. That was business. So is this. You are a professional, are you not? Act professionally."

"The rate for my services just tripled."

"Surprise, surprise. How the world turns. I don't care how much it costs – can you locate the item that I specified? The Colt pistol?"

"I looked into you, Hope." Bela enunciated each word with extreme care. "After Gigi's death, there were quite a few people who wondered about your bona fides. I did some research, and lo and behold, Hope Lyonne did not really exist."

"Neither does Bela Talbot – or Lucy Harker. Bit hypocritical to be bothered by my alias, isn't it?"

The other woman spoke over her. "I looked further, asked a client to use some facial recognition software. You're rather infamous, aren't you, Faith?"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about." Taken aback, Faith lost her hold on the Hope persona.

"Faith Lehane, convicted murderer and self-styled vampire slayer."

It really pissed her off when people forgot the capitals. They were important. "Your point?" she shot back, her voice just shy of a snarl.

"I can see right through you, Faith. You're so transparent as to be invisible. No, I won't be doing business with you. I don't deal with rabble. And, by the way, you can tell Dean Winchester from me that his little plan hasn't worked. The Colt is mine now, until I find a satisfactory buyer. So he can stop being the ever-present pebble in my shoe."

"He's going to find it, you know."

Bela laughed. "He can try."

Faith continued on as if she hadn't spoken. "And then he'll kill you. Or I will," she added as an afterthought.

"Two redneck thugs, united forever by their love of murder. Ha," scoffed Bela. "I look forward to watching you fail in the attempt." Still laughing, she hung up.

 _Frak_. The Slayer threw her phone across the room and collapsed into Giles' heavy desk chair, her heart sinking into her toes. That had not gone according to plan.  _Frak, frak, frak._

* * *

**March 18th, 2008, London, England, 11:15 p.m.**

"Any news?" She despised the pleading quality in her voice that was often present these days.

Richard Wilkins gazed at her across the fire, sitting comfortably criss cross applesauce. "Sorry, firecracker. The boundaries between dimensions are getting more and more corporeal. What did you say your little friend Buffy destroyed in the depths of Sunnydale last year?"

"The seed of wonder, I think?"

He nodded. "Well, unfortunately, I don't think she realized the magnitude of what she was doing. Slayers rarely do. They're so impetuous. Get the bit between their teeth and just charge away with it. It can be the most infuriating thing . . . or the most refreshing one," he added quickly, noticing her less than impressed dead-eye stare.

"So what exactly did Buffy do?"

"Without the seed of wonder, the gateways between dimensions are slowing closing down as they exhaust their reserves of magical energy. The more they're used, the faster the barriers come up. Like a permanently fixed income that's quickly running out. What this means for you and your boyfriend –"

"Not my boyfriend, boss."

"Oh, well, a parental figure can dream." At the Slayer's continued glare, he backtracked, "Very well. What this means for you and your friend is that I can't make the trip from my little summer cottage to the Judeo-Christian Hell of human souls as often as I would like to. But I did slip through last week, and I talked to the head of the crossroads demons."

"And?" asked Faith hopefully.

The Mayor frowned. "Nasty, pedestrian little fellow. Absolutely filthy language – and his sideburns are really in the worst taste. He claimed not to know anything about it. And since I was on his home turf, so to speak, I didn't have the advantage of pressing the issue." He cracked his knuckles casually.

Faith suppressed the urge to shiver. Sometimes, it was easy to forget the capability for violence that lay beneath the demon's refined tones. He was on her side, at least marginally. That, combined with the relaxed camaraderie that filled their conversations often lulled her into a false sense of security. It would be so simple to believe him, to trust him the way she had in Sunnydale. But then moments like this happened, and she remembered all too well his cruelty when crossed.

She kept her voice neutral and her face impassive. "So now what? Now what do I do?"

"There are a few more gateways I can try, and probably a few more books somewhere out there in the world to read, but if any of it will work out? I don't know, sweet pea. I just don't know."

* * *

**May 1st, 2008, London, England, 6:00 a.m.**

Faith had been waiting for this particular call. She had wondered, expected, hoped it was coming, so she had started sleeping with a phone by her pillow and the volume turned all the way up. Never let it be said that Faith Lehane didn't know how to prepare.

"Give me just a minute, okay?" she said and then pulled the phone away from her ear.

She stumbled out of bed, creeping on tiptoe past the half-open door to Giles' study. The faint glow of a table lamp spread out in a triangle over the hall carpet. Angel must still be awake, brooding over some occult mystery in a musty leather-bound volume. He tended to do that, nowadays. There was no real need for Faith to creep, but she would rather avoid explanations for the moment.

Rounding the corner of the hall, she settled onto the large leather couch that dominated the living room. Her back pressed against one of the arms, she tucked her feet beneath the cushions at the far end. The Slayer braced herself and brought the phone back up.

"Hey," she said breathlessly. "I wondered if you were gonna call."

"I'm that predictable?" His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper.

"I've been watching the calendar." A crushing weight sat on her chest, making it difficult to say anything at all, let alone the right words. If there even were right words for days like today.

"Yeah."

Heavy silence filled the air between them. They had had this conversation several times already. Faith had spent the last nine months preparing, upending heaven and hell in search of solutions, slowly drifting away when Dean's disappointment and regret each time she failed became too painful. It was excruciating - she could not help him, could not save him, could not even stand beside him and go down in a blaze of glory and a pile of bleeding Hell Hounds.

She'd offered; he'd refused. Faith knew better than to bring that discussion back up again.

"How are you?" It was a stupid question, but it had to be asked.

"Ready. I think. One way or another, this'll be over in 24 hours. We know where Lilith is gonna be, we know how to kill her . . . We'll be in and out before sundown. Once I've slept off my celebratory hangover, I'll call you."

"Okay. Sounds like you've got a plan. . . . Dean, if things don't go well . . ."

"I'm gonna be just fine."

"I know. And I'll talk to you in a couple of days. But . . . just in case . . . there's something I gotta say."

"What?" The word was empty, guttural, neither a question nor a demand. Dean had run out of emotion. He didn't have anything left for her tonight.

 _Save me a seat in Hell._  "I'll bust you out."

A tiny fragment of despair crept into his voice. "Faith . . . this won't be anything like prison."

"I'll get you out. Somehow. I promise."

The hunter inhaled, a long, struggling breath. "I . . . I don't really want to talk about this, Faith."

"Oh." That stung.

He continued, "I can't sleep. I've been trying for over an hour. Sam's out like a rock. And it wouldn't be a big deal, but I need to be on my game tomorrow, so -"

"So alcohol and everything else are off the table."

"Yeah."

"What do you need?"

"Can you . . . can you just talk to me? Until I fall asleep. Or sing . . . your voice isn't that bad." The joke fell flat.

Faith cleared her throat of the legions of frogs that had taken up residence. She couldn't save him. This was the least she could do. "You want me to sing you a lullaby?"

"If you like," he said so casually and dismissively that it burned. "Or just tell me what you're doing in London."

And so Faith talked. She explained about Angel and his halting road to redemption, of the Slayer crowd in London and of the monsters they'd been chasing. She talked of Andrew's new novel - almost finished! - of Lily's latest theater role. She shared silly stories of bad dates that Becka had gone on, of vampires too foolhardy to believe in the dangers of sunlight, of Oz's successful meditation-for-werewolves program.

While she spoke, the sun moved overhead, the pale grey of dawn spreading across the living room carpet. When she ran out of words, she paused, uncertain as to whether or not she should continue.

"Don't stop," came the quiet, sleepy voice. "Keep going."

Faith didn't really know any lullabies. Her mom and her Aunt Stella had occasionally sung to her, but it was all folksy-driven stuff from the 60's and their own childhoods, not anything about babies and sunshine and pretty flowers. Which probably worked out okay. Dean wasn't exactly a pretty-flower person.

It would be fine. No one would ever know about this, and it would be fine. And if he did tell someone, who would believe him? After all, Faith Lehane did not sing lullabies. Besides, she kinda owed it to him. Dying man's requests and all that.

"Puff the magic dragon lived by the sea

And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honali

Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal Puff

And brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff

. . . .

Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail

Jackie kept a lookout perched on Puff's gigantic tail

Noble kings and princes would bow whene'er they came

Pirate ships would lower their flags when Puff roared out his name

. . . .

A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys

Painted wings and giant's rings make way for other toys

One gray night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more

And Puff, that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar

. . . .

His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain

Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane

Without his lifelong friend, Puff could not be brave

So Puff, that mighty dragon, sadly slipped into his cave

. . . .

Oh, Puff the magic dragon lived by the sea

And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honali. . ."

The Slayer listened to the slow, heavy breathing on the other end of the line. He was probably asleep. She didn't need to sing anymore. But there was one melody thoroughly stuck in her head, and she wasn't quite ready to say goodbye. Not just yet.

"Well the sun is surely sinking down, but the moon is slowly rising.

So this old world must still be spinning round, and I still love you.

. . . .

So close your eyes, you can close your eyes, it's all right.

I don't know no love songs, and I can't sing the blues anymore.

But I can sing this song, and you can sing this song when I'm gone.

. . . .

It won't be long before another day. We gonna have a good time.

And no one's gonna take that time away. You can stay as long as you like.

. . . .

So close your eyes, you can close your eyes, it's all right.

Well, I don't know no love songs, and I can't sing the blues anymore.

But I can sing this song, and you can sing this song when I'm gone."

. . . .

As the last note faded away, Faith sat in silence, a stray tear dripping off the tip of her nose. Chunky black cell phone pressed to her ear, she waited. Her heartbeat slowed, and her breathing synced itself with that of a sleeping man half a world away.

She waited, closing her eyes and listening to that gentle in and out, in and out, until the cell phone battery died and Angel braved the sunlit room to come fetch her away.


	55. I Don't Know If I Can Yell Any Louder

**A/N:** major cookies to anyone who can guess what song the title of this chapter is taken from. Also, I put together a Sync-themed playlist on spotify. You can find it by looking up either 'authoressinhiding' or 'Synchronicity'.

* * *

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: May 3, 2008 at 11:30 p.m.  
Subject: none

You didn't call last night. Trying to keep my head on here. I want to call you, but I don't want you not to pick up. Call me, Dean. Please.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: May 9, 2008 at 3:00 a.m.  
Subject: none

Finally got a hold of Sam. Funeral's already over, he says. No point in flying over there. What do I . . . how do I . . . F-ck. I didn't even tell you goodbye.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: May 15, 2008 at 12:00 p.m.  
Subject: Sam

So your little brother told me to quit calling your old phones unless I've got a solution to bring you back. He doesn't want to hear from me. He wouldn't even listen when I tried to tell him about the Mayor. That's right. I summoned a demon to help me find a way to bust you out. You'd be so pissed right now.

Got so frustrated I almost yelled at Sam. Doesn't he realize that he's not the only one who . . . Never mind.

I need a drink.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: May 19, 2008 at 11:30 a.m  
Subject: RE: Sam

Angel keeps staring at me weird. I dunno why. Not like I'm drunk or anything. Takes more than a fifth of whiskey to make me drunk. I'm the g-ddamn Slayer.

It's all for science, anyway. I'm conducting a research experiment – how much alcohol does it take for this hole in my chest to go away?

So far, no luck.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: June 2, 2008 at 9:00 a.m.  
Subject: Sorry it's been a while

Holy sh-t. I haven't been this hungover in my entire damn life. I didn't even know I could get this hungover.

According to Andrew, I've been living off of whiskey and vodka for the last month. Stupid Andrew. He blew off his squad in Tokyo to come babysit me, and he can't even pay attention. I haven't touched vodka since before prison. I don't like the memories.

Hang on a sec . . . oh, crap. There are vodka bottles in my trash can. Oh no. Oh no.

I guess I needed those drinks more than I thought.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: June 17, 2008 at 10:00 p.m.  
Subject: AA for Slayers

We're officially two weeks into the Dry-Faith-Out campaign. Forced upon yours truly by the combined efforts of Becka, Lily, Robin, Spike, Andrew, and Angel. They all ganged up on me and staged a transatlantic intervention over Skype.

It was freaking awkward. They wouldn't stop looking at me with wounded eyes until I promised I'd quit. Andrew made a sketch pad presentation and designed my own steps. You'd have gotten a kick out of it.

Talked to the Mayor last night. He's been having trouble getting in to the right Judeo-Christian Hell dimension. Says it's nearly impregnable. Apparently when Buffy killed magic, she buggered up all the back doors.

Gave in and called your phone again. It didn't even go to voicemail – said it had been disconnected. What's your little brother up to?

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: June 22, 2008 at 8:45 p.m.  
Subject: RE: AA for Slayers

I tell you Andrew's steps to this?

1\. Acknowledge you have a problem.

2\. Replace alcohol with water. And actual food.

3\. If you smoke more than two cigarettes a day, Andrew will wake you up by singing the themes to various telenovelas for a week.

Those're all the ones I can remember, anyway. I didn't tell them, but I got my own set of steps:

1\. Take Advil

2\. Call Willow

3\. Resurrect Dean.

The Mayor's coming up blank, so I'm reaching out to new ideas. I'm sorry it's taken me seven weeks to act on my promise. And there's not an excuse in the world that would be good enough. I said I'd get you out. And I will.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: June 29, 2008 at 11:30 p.m.  
Subject: none

Called Willow. She's a little gun-shy from her last resurrection party, and a bit less power hungry than she used to be. She might be able to do it, but she isn't sure it's a good idea. Damn her eyes.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: July 1, 2008 at 7:15 a.m.  
Subject: Good news!

Red says if I can prove to her satisfaction that you're in Hell, not Heaven, she'll help. Guess she's in no hurry to repeat what happened with Buffy. I told her you signed a deal with a crossroads demon, but she calls that hearsay.

Even now, she's still too much of a stickler for rules – unless it benefits her. But hey – it's a step forward, and I've already read every available occult book in London. And my brightest ideas would probably just bring you back as a zombie.

Zombie Dean isn't exactly what we're looking for.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: July 2, 2008 at 5:00 p.m.  
Subject: RE: Good news!

Sam still isn't taking my calls. I had an idea – summoning a crossroads demon tonight. First time – I don't count the Mayor.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: July 3, 2008 at 9:00 p.m.  
Subject: That blew

That demon was a total prick. Accent somewhere between Giles and Spike, only a few inches taller than me, too much sideburns. Dark hair, red eyes, awful breath.

I had a camera set up – Andrew filming from around the corner, so I've got video proof that you're in hell. Damn demon admitted it. Told me all sorts of awful stuff. Don't know if any of it's true. Hope it isn't, but it probably is.

Hold on, Dean.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: July 10, 2008 at 6:30 p.m.  
Subject: Sh-t

Sh-t. Sh-t. Sh-t. Sh-t. Willow came over, and we tried the ritual last night. You'd have shot us on sight if you saw us – had to kill a deer, we got drenched in blood – just a regular evening for a couple of satanists. Good thing the police didn't get there until five minutes after we left.

We tried the damn ritual, and it didn't work. That yanked on Little Miss Magic's chain. Been a while since she couldn't get it up. She wants to try again tonight.

I dunno. I'm starting to run out of ideas.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: July 21, 2008 at 11:27 p.m.  
Subject: Crap. Again.

Resurrection Redux didn't work. Obviously. If it had, I wouldn't be sending emails to an abandoned account. I'd be with you.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: July 21, 2008 at 11:40 p.m.  
Subject: RE: Crap. Again.

Not like that. Get your mind out of the soap operas.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: July 21, 2008 at 11:55 p.m.  
Subject: RE: RE: Crap. Again.

Or is it my mind that's stuck in a soap opera? Andrew keeps talking about epic love stories – he never stops – and he doesn't seem to get that, well . . . forget it.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: August 7, 2008 at 7:15 a.m.  
Subject: We've got a plan

Willow's in on this now. She's tried five different rituals in the last four days. She says something's fighting her. She can't break through, whatever it is. But she says she has a few more ideas.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: August 24, 2008 at 8:55 p.m.  
Subject: Plans suck

Willow's out of ideas. Last time she tried, something pushed back, and she's had a reaction headache for three days. Ended up taking her to the hospital, it got so bad.

Don't worry. I'm not giving up. I'll just hit the books again while Willow's getting better.

I made you a promise. And I'm gonna keep it.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: September 1, 2008, at 6:30 a.m.  
Subject: Hell-bound

Hey. A lot's happened in the last week. Angel's swayed Willow into the resurrect-Giles camp, with the promises of helping her get into another demon dimension to access her precious magic. I got so pissed that I threw a bottle of wine at their heads – which did not end well.

I can't believe Red. Doesn't she get how important this is? Yeah, you're both dead, but Giles is probably in Heaven or something. We have video testimony from a crossroads demon that you're getting ripped up into kibbles and bits, like that Prometheus guy.

No one listened to me. Don't know why the hell I even tried. Although maybe throwing glass was a bad idea.

So guess who gets to go to a frakked up place called Quor'Toth, with Angel's seriously annoying twenty-something son?

Yep, that's right. Me. I'm still so angry it's like the entire world is colored with blood. My fingers are frakking shaking as I'm typing. I just . . . .

Sorry about that. I locked myself in the bathroom and took an ice-cold shower. Less shaking now. Less urge to vomit. Still want to hit things. Hard. Until my knuckles bleed.

G-ddamn it all to frakking hell. This is not what's supposed to happen.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: September 2, 2008, at 3:15 a.m.  
Subject: RE: Hell-bound

Went patrolling earlier tonight. Got into a bit of a tumble with a nest of vampires who've been hanging out near the London Eye. Pretty sure I can never wear these jeans again, and I might have pulled something in my lower back – I know, I'm getting old.

Still, one of me, five of them, and they were all dust in fifteen minutes. Not too bad for an old lady.

Angel and Willow were still out when I got home, so I summoned the Mayor. Just for a quick ten-minute chat. He says hi, by the way. But better, he says that in Quor'Toth, the walls between Hell dimensions might be easier to break through. Asked me to summon him there, and we'll see if it's doable.

It's looking up again. I'm packing heavy – rosaries, holy water, silver – all the classics. Guess I might be getting to Hell sooner than I thought.

. . . .

 **From: FyreCracker5x5**  
To: ZepHead_79  
Date: September 14, 2008, at 8:54 p.m.  
Subject: Quor'Toth

. . . was a total waste of time. Walls were too thick for a battering ram to get through, let alone a Slayer-sized punch.

I don't know what's wrong with me. I should be excited about Giles – we're one step closer to getting him back. But all I can think about is how I've failed you.

I'm so sorry, Dean. So damn, damn sorry.

I just wish sorry was enough.

. . . . .


	56. Sundown, pt 1

**A/N:** References to "Lazarus Rising" and Angel and Faith Season 9. One more chapter on the angst train.

* * *

**September 16th, 2008, London, England, 11:45 p.m.**

The soft hush of voices caught her attention as she slipped back in through the front door of the flat after an unproductive evening's search. Ethan Rayne was still on the loose, and there were reports of zombie-like creatures as far away as Greenwich. Under normal circumstances, she would have taken the entire night to scour the city, but tonight was nowhere near normal. They had returned from Quor'toth and Peru five days ago, and Faith's various bruises – physical as well as emotional – had yet to scab over completely.

Some of the rage that permeated Quor'toth seemed to have clung, following her back to London. A parting gift from a hell dimension. By moments alternatively angry and apathetic, the Slayer had trudged through the rain-soake jd streets every night since her return. She was drowning under the weight of responsibility, and it never, ever ended. Giles' grave was empty, Eyghon the Sleepwalker had been released, Nadira was on the war path, and the obnoxious Pearl and Nash had once again stepped up their game. And somehow, it fell to her to straighten everything out.

Faith was trapped, surrounded by a mess of enemies and trigger-happy allies. Most nights, she didn't even sleep, whether due to sorting out someone's crap or her ever-present insomnia. She had been awake for the last thirty-six hours, and her vision was starting to go a bit blurry around the edges. Reluctantly admitting that she wasn't safe to patrol or to fight, the Slayer allowed the Tube to carry her home.

Now, she clutched her Oyster card in one hand, the edges of the plastic digging painfully into her palm. Faith focused in on the sting. It was easier to deal with than the conversation emanating from the kitchen. She didn't have to hear much to know that they were talking about her. Closing the door with a harsh thud, she waited for the inevitable rush of vampire feet towards her.

Aha. There were this evening's conspirators. Faith wrapped her arms around her stomach and forced a smile. If it was a little ragged around the edges and more than a little angry, so what? She didn't really care anymore.

"Evening, boys." She snapped off a salute, ignoring the faint guilt lingering in Angel's eyes. "Nice to see you, Spike. Had no idea you were in town."

The blond vampire shrugged, his moments as effortlessly cool as always. "Grapevine said you two were trying to work some major mojo. Sounded like a party."

"Glad to have you." Faith kicked off her boots and hung up her rain jacket, taking advantage of the excuse to look away. She couldn't meet their eyes anymore, not when they were staring at her like she'd just killed their puppy. "Long couple of days, so I'm gonna hit the sack. Angel here can get you up to speed – if he hasn't already."

She didn't bother waiting for a response. Keeping her posture as tall and straight as possible, the Slayer walked slowly back to her bedroom, conscious of the prickly vampiric stare that dogged her every step of the way.

* * *

"Frak," said Spike in an undertone the instant Faith's bedroom door shut behind her. "I had no idea . . ."

Angel exhaled heavily, a centuries-old habit that refused to die. "I did try to warn you," he replied, tone mild. Turning, he headed back towards the kitchen, Spike close at his heels.

"Words don't really do it justice," observed the younger vampire.

With a shrug, Angel opened the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of blood. He poured two tall glasses of O-positive, pretending not to notice as Spike added a dash of bourbon from his flask to both of them. "Like she said – welcome to the party."

"Dammit, Angel, you both look like hell. She's got worse circles under her eyes than after that battle with the First. And you – you've been prettier with a sword stuck through your gut."

There was no arguing with this. "Since we got back from Quor'toth, it's like the entire city is out to get one or the both of us. Still, she looks better than she did at the beginning of the summer. You missed it. She just sat in Giles' study and emptied bottle after bottle of whatever alcohol she could get her hands on, whenever she wasn't working a case."

"So . . . pretty much what you did last year."

He let this one pass. "Except I can't actually kill my liver any worse than it is already. And then her father showed up looking for help with these mystical loan sharks . . ."

The blond raised a suspicious eyebrow. "I thought Faith's parents were dead."

Angel shrugged. "So did she. Apparently, her father is not." He drank deeply from his glass, closing his eyes in appreciation. Although he would never admit it, adding the burn of the bourbon had been a genius idea.

"So?" the other man prompted. "What happened?"

"The bastard told her that she would had inherited the Lehane temper and would always be a monster or some rot like that. Utter crap, but it was too much for her to handle. Drusilla was in town, working with a demon. They made Faith an offer to take her pain away. She accepted."

Spike winced at the mention of his ex-lover. "How is Dru, by the way?" he asked, attempting to keep his voice casual.

According to Angel's ironic eye-roll, the attempt was unsuccessful. "Much as she ever has been."

Time for a re-direct, before Angel started leaping to conclusions. Spike wasn't entirely sure what he felt about Dru at the moment, and he had absolutely no desire to let the Great Brooder speculate. "How does that work, exactly? Taking someone's pain away?"

"Zaps them of their emotions – no more joy, no more love, no more anger, no more pain. Works just like it says on the box."

"So she was . . . free, then?"

"Which one – Faith or Dru?"

"Either – both."

Angel drained the last of his blood, carelessly flicking his tongue across his upper lip to capture the final traces of the ruby liquid. "Dru was . . . terrifying. Brilliant. Cruel. And completely sane."

"And Faith?"

"Almost as dangerous."

The younger vampire digested this in silence. After a moment, he said, "That didn't last, though, did it? You can practically smell the pain on her."

His grandsire sagged back in the kitchen chair. "You noticed it, too?"

Spike nodded.

"I had started to wonder if I was imagining things." Angel ran a hand across his face. "Or maybe I just hoped that I was."

He rose from the table, absent-mindedly picking up both his and Spike's glasses. The vampire washed them out in the sink. "It hasn't gone away, what I was telling you earlier. She might not drink anymore, but she isn't five by five, either. She just won't talk to me about it anymore."

Glancing up at him in shock, Spike nearly choked as he put two and two together. "You want  _me_  to talk to Faith? I'm not like you, Peaches. I don't do the big pep talk. Not my style."

"She needs to talk to someone," Angel insisted, setting the glasses on the draining board to dry. "Come on, Spike. You owe me."

The younger vampire frowned. "Pretty sure it's the other way around, Captain Forehead. If you remember, it was me that saved  _your_  sorry ass last time we were in California."

"Spike. Please."

Standing up to Angel had always been a bit touch and go, particularly when he got all pleading-y. It was manipulative and unfair, and dammit, they both knew it. And yet Spike couldn't help but surrender.

"All right, fine," he grumbled. Getting to his feet, he shoved his chair back beneath the kitchen table with more force than necessary. "I'll do it. I'll talk to her."

* * *

Thirty-seven hours, and still she couldn't fall asleep. Faith lay in the middle of Giles' giant bed, the comforter drawn over her head, and fought the urge to scream. It was too dark; it wasn't dark enough. She was freezing; no, she was sweating through her t-shirt. The scratching of the sheets against her skin was maddening. No matter how she squirmed and squirmed, the Slayer could not get comfortable.

Gnawing on her lip, the woman shifted her weight and rolled onto her right side, her back towards the door. She ought to have expected this, really. It was all par for the course. The Slayer curled into a ball, her knees nearly brushing her chest. Faith needed sleep, and needed it desperately. At the same time, she dreaded the moment when the blackish blue behind her eyelids was replaced by actual dreaming.

Weird dreams were part and parcel of Slayerdom. Even discounting the rare prophetic ones, a Slayer tended to have vivid dreams and more than the usual amount of nightmares. Faith was no luckier than the rest of her sisters. The last few months, however, her nightmares had gotten worse. Now, when she dreamt, she dreamt of hell, in every possible iteration her subconscious could come up with.

Faith was tired. Tired of fighting her way through fog. Tired of constant failure. Tired of waking up with a pounding heart and sweat-soaked sheets. Tired of this gaping, bleeding, aching hole in her gut that never, ever went away.

She couldn't sleep, couldn't dream, couldn't even breathe properly.

The door opened behind her, and someone padded across the carpeted floor. They sat on the edge of her bed and flicked on the lamp, the faint light permeating through the thick comforter.

"I know you're not sleeping," came the gentle drawl.

Spike, then. She'd wondered which of them it would be this time. The vampire rested his hand easily on her shoulder, but he didn't touch the blanket over her head, for which Faith was faintly grateful. She needed her blanket, needed the illusion of privacy and security it provided. G-d, was she pitiful.

"You want a smoke?" he offered quietly, and his duster rustled as he withdrew a pack of cigarettes.

"I quit," mumbled Faith.

Fingernails tapped against the pewter of a flask. "You want a drink?"

"Quit that, too."

"My, my. You have gotten all dreary lately." The bed dipped as Spike lifted his boots off the floor and stretched out next to her.

Faith did not bother to answer, and he tugged the comforter away from her face. She lifted her head off the mattress to glare at him, but Spike caught her chin in one hand. His fingers were icy against her overheated skin. It felt amazingly good.

"You and Angel been enjoying your little gossip sessions?" she growled, staying still for the present. She'd jerk away in a second.

The vampire ignored this attempt to goad his temper. Instead, his blue eyes bored into her brown ones. "He's worried about you."

This time, Faith did move, grabbing the edge of her comforter and dragging it back over her head. "No, he's not." Muffled by the fabric, it was somewhere between a snarl and a sob. "He's worried about himself. His redemption and his big-ass plan to save the G-man. He's worried that I won't be able to help him."

"I'd be the first to admit that Angel isn't exactly a saint, but he isn't quite as mercenary as all that . . . and he has a point," Spike added after a beat or two of uncomfortable silence. "You do look like hell."

Her response came back as a whisper. "I feel like hell."

"Pet – " His hand brushed her shoulder, and the Slayer scooted further away.

"Don't. Just . . . don't."

"This is still about him, isn't it?" There was no need for Spike to specify who he was referring to.

"What – you tryin' to play Dear Abby or Dr. Phil now?"

"Faith."

"Save it." The Slayer inhaled deeply. "Look, I'm tired. I need to go to sleep. Can you just . . . leave?"

"Okay, love." The mattress bounded upwards as he moved away. "I'll go. See if I can help Peaches figure out how to track down Eyghon."

"Thanks," she said so softly that his vampire hearing only just picked it up.

His fingers closing around the cool metal of the doorknob, Spike turned back for one last parting thought. "When Buffy died, I thought the world was ending. Ironic, I'll grant you, given that I'd lived for over a century before I met her. But knowing her – loving her – changed things. Everything was clearer, brighter – it all meant more. And then she died."

The vampire sucked his teeth and went on. "She died, and I was left to pick up the pieces. To watch out for her little sister, to keep that bloody stupid Hellmouth safe, to watch her friends self-destruct in their inability to get on without her. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. One hundred and forty-seven days. I half-thought I was going to die myself."

Faith pushed back her comforter and rolled over to stare at him. "But Buffy came back," she whispered, and instead of the agony Spike had been expecting, there was a deadness in her eyes and voice. It shook him.

"Don't give up hope, love," he said on impulse, unable to reconcile the Slayer he knew with the emotionless woman in front of him.

"I've hoped; I've prayed. I've tried, I've tried, and I've tried. It's been a hundred and thirty-eight days. He's not coming back, Spike. Dean's gone."

He took a step towards her. "Faith –"

But having said her piece, she would say no more. The Slayer gave him one final dispassionate glance and disappeared back into her quilted cocoon.

* * *

**September 18th, 2008, Peoria, Illinois, 10:15 a.m.**

His throat ached. Two bottles of water had barely taken the edge off his terrible thirst. Dean could feel the dry itch slowly scratching its way back up from his lungs with every breath he took. But that was the least of his worries. His mind was reeling, overwhelmed with the events of the last two hours.

He was alive, again. Someone – something – had brought him back, shoved him back into a body that was in even better condition than when he'd left it. The hunter had done some quick damage assessment in the gas station, and the scars, the bullet wounds – hell, even the grayish graphite mark from where a three-year-old Sam had stabbed him in the leg with a pencil while he was trying to do his homework and wouldn't play hot wheels – they were all gone. He was whole, new,  _healed_  – except for that mark on his left shoulder. The awful red pulsing thing that looked like a brand.

Dean didn't know who was responsible or how he had gotten to the middle of nowhere Illinois, but he pushed all of that down deep into the back of his mind. Right now, he needed to get ahold of someone. Find Sam, or Bobby, or someone, get on the road, and get outta here, before somebody realized that Dean Winchester had been sprung free of Hell and decided to thrust him back down there.

That was absolutely not happening. Not if Dean had any say about it. So he filled a plastic grocery bag with snacks and candy bars, a few more bottles of water and an edition of Busty Asian Beauties that wasn't too outdated. He raided the register and shoved his pockets to the brim with cash. Might as well stock up on everything now. Besides, stealing from an abandoned grocery store came nowhere near the most severe of his supposed crimes.

The blazing September sun beat down on his neck and shoulders as he stood at the payphone, making the already stuffy air in the glass enclosure even more sweltering and difficult to breathe. He did his best to ignore it as he stuffed quarters into the coin slot and dialed out. First, Sam. The phone had been disconnected, which was both surprising and frustrating. Next, Bobby.

At least the older man picked up, even if he slammed the phone back into its cradle half a moment later. Well, that was good news, as far as it went. Bobby was still kicking, still breathing, and according to the phone, still living at the salvage yard. He had somewhere to go to, now.

Dean hesitated, his fingers brushing over the handful of quarters in his back pocket. But then his impulses got the better of him, and he was throwing away another dollar's worth of coins on a fool's hope. He dialed the third number only to get a voicemail.

"Hey. This is Faith. You know what to do."

He ought to have been disappointed. Instead, hope surged unreasonably in Dean's gut. Her phone still worked. She hadn't disconnected it. As far as he was concerned, that was a good sign.

The hunter dropped the payphone back into the receiver and cast an appraising eye over the two abandoned cars in the parking lot. One of these senior citizens would be able to get him up to South Dakota. He just needed to choose the right one.

* * *

**September 19th, 2008, Avoca, Iowa, 1:45 p.m.**

With over a thousand miles, a barbecue dinner from Bobby's favorite restaurant, and a good night's sleep under his belt, Dean felt much more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. The scratch at the back of his throat had vanished, although his curiosity and confusion had only intensified. He was starting to pick up bits and pieces of information about what had happened upstairs during the four months that he was dead, and most of it was a little concerning.

What godawful thing had his little brother agreed to to bring him back? And how much did Faith know about it? The continued radio silence from both directions bothered him, but Bobby was driving them swiftly towards the GPS tracker in Sam's phone, so at least that part of the mystery would get sorted out soon enough.

It had been a coon's age since Dean had spent this much time riding shotgun, and after the first three hours or so, he was going crazy with inactivity. Driving involved thinking, navigating, actually doing something; sitting like some useless growth while someone else drove did not. But this was Bobby's car, so he kept his mouth shut.

On and off, Bobby'd had over twenty years to learn how to read the Winchester boys, however, and when they pulled off in Avoca to gas up the Chevelle, he shoved his cell phone into Dean's hands.

"Here," he grumbled, shifting into park and unbuckling his seat belt. "Check your email or play solitaire or something. I don't care what you do. Just stop staring at me like that. It's damn creepy."

While the older man filled up the tank and then hit the head, Dean took advantage of the privacy to make a call.

"Hey. This is Faith. You know what to do."

She still wasn't answering. Gritting his teeth, the hunter ignored the nasty suspicions spreading poison throughout his mind. Two unanswered calls didn't mean anything. She wasn't avoiding him. She hadn't forgotten him. Like as not, he just had bad timing, or she didn't answer unknown numbers.

In an effort to distract himself, he started checking through the four-month backlog of email on his various accounts. The Gmail one was first. Everything had been opened already, which he found unsurprising. Odds were Sam had hacked into most of his emails. Had the circumstances been exchanged, Dean would have found a way to do the same thing. You never knew who might need help or how they might reach out for it.

Bobby had been right – this was a decent way to pass the time. Feeling a bit less claustrophobic now, Dean slowly worked his way through all the messages, changed his password, and then moved on to Yahoo. Here, too, the emails had been opened and read. He skimmed these and again changed the password. Sam reading his mail might have been okay while Dean was dead, but now that he was back in the land of the living, his private life was once again off limits.

After about an hour of scanning through emails, taking a break now and then to comment on the radio or ask Bobby a question, he finally got to his ZepHead_79 account. This one hadn't been hacked by his little brother, probably because Dean had created it during Sam's time at Stanford, and he really only used it for a couple of things.

Once he cleared the inbox of spam, there were 20 messages left unread, all of them from the same person. Stomach cringing, Dean began with the first message. Never the fastest reader at the best of times, he practically crawled through Faith's emails.

Every couple of messages, he glanced away from the phone. It was difficult to keep his face expressionless. Dean was almost tempted to delete each email after reading. They were too raw, uncomfortably so, and he had a deep-seated feeling that Faith had never actually intended for him to read them.

Finally, he reached the last email. So. She hadn't been the one to bring him back, then. The hunter paused with his thumb over the reply button. What did he say – what could he say? Simply replying to one of her emails wouldn't be enough to convince her that he was alive. Hell – not even seeing him in person had been enough for Bobby, not until he'd proven his immunity to holy water and silver.

Dean gave it one more try and dialed Faith's number a third time. For the third time, she didn't pick up. He tossed the phone back to Bobby. "Thanks."

"Find anything interesting?" asked the older hunter knowingly.

"Nothing in particular," Dean lied. He stared out the car window at the Iowa fields flashing past, guilt-free despite the deception. The emails were Faith's business – Faith's and his. It would be up to the two of them to sort it out.

* * *

**September 20th, 2008, Peoria, Illinois, 5:30 p.m.**

He snuck out of the motel room while Sam was taking a shower. Bobby was still at the hospital with Pamela, and Dean had planned to use the down time to get some shut-eye. But before any more time passed, he had other things to settle. On his way out, he grabbed Sam's cell phone from off the bathroom counter. The hunter sat behind the wheel of his baby, one boot dangling out the open door to rest on the concrete, and made a final call.

Someone picked up on the third ring. "What do you want, Sam?"

Now that he heard her voice, Dean's mind went blank.

The woman continued, brusque and impatient. "No word from you for what – three months – and now you call me? You gotta want something. Spit it out before I hang up. I've got a Slayer schism to fix and a skin-stealing demon to track down, so dealing with your crap is nowhere near the top of my to-do list."

"I'm not Sam."

"Excuse me?"

"It's me, Dean."

This statement was met with a sharp intake of breath.

Dean pressed on, unwilling to wait for the inevitable rejection. "Want me to prove it? Fine, I'll prove it. You have an unhealthy obsession with popcorn – you eat the stuff at least twice a week. If you could tap one celebrity, it would be Daniel Craig – I have no idea why."

He inhaled quickly and continued, "When we had that giant fight over Valentine's, I got you a stone horse as an apology. Gave him to you after you saved my ass from the Vetala. That was, uh, 2004. I named him Smokey, and you took him to London with you. And – and – and – that weekend we went to San Diego in '05, you told me that the last person you said 'I love you' to was your mom when you were thirteen . . . You believe me now?"

"Dean?" It was a cross between a croak and a plea. There came a soft thunk as the Slayer collapsed onto something. Probably a bed, from the creaking noise of the springs.

"It's me."

"You're . . . you're . . ."

"I'm alive. All in one piece, fresher than a daisy. . . I don't get it, either. No chance you're the one who busted me out?" he asked reflexively. The hunter was pretty sure, both from her emails and from the reaction against Pamela, that Faith had nothing to do with it. Burning people's eyes out wasn't really her thing.

"No . . . no . . . I tried," she said in a rush, her voice shaky and desperate. "I tried, Dean, I tried. I – "

"I know," he said softly. "I checked my email."

"Oh."

"You still in London?"

"Yeah. I . . . I . . . "

Dean changed the subject. "How soon can you make it to South Dakota?"

"What?"

"Omaha, Sioux Falls, Pierre, any one of those three would work. Can you get there? Or do you need to go after your skin-stealing demon?"

Some of her characteristic steel re-entered the Slayer's voice. "I can leave in the morning."

"Good. Send me your flight information once you book the ticket. I'll pick you up at the airport."

"Dean –"

"I need you, Faith. Can't do this without you." He said the words casually, almost flippantly, but he meant them with all his heart. "So, whaddya say? Wanna get the band back together?"

She gulped. "Okay."

"Damn right it's okay." He listened to the sound of her ragged breathing for a long, slow moment. Sam would be getting out of the shower pretty soon, so he'd better get back in the hotel room before his little brother came out demanding explanations. "I'll see you tomorrow night, Faith. We can figure out . . . I can explain everything then."

After a brief exchange of goodbyes, the hunter hung up. In the last fifty-four hours, he'd crawled his way out of a grave, spent more than half that time in a car, and gotten into a pissing contest with a couple of low-level demons. He was exhausted, deep down in his bones, and something told him the party was only just getting started. Dropping Sam's cell onto the coffee table, Dean lay down on the pull-out couch and slept.

* * *

**September 21st, 2008, Eppley Airfield, Omaha, Nebraska, 10:23 p.m.**

He pulled up to the airport five minutes after her plane was supposed to have landed. Rushing, Dean left the Impala in short-term parking and hurried inside to the baggage claim. While he had no idea how long it would take Faith to actually deboard the plane, he wanted to be there waiting when she did. It had been over a year, and too damn much had happened.

Since Sam had caught a ride back to the salvage yard with Bobby, the last four hours had been spent with nothing but his own thoughts. Dean chased his tail and thought himself in circles about the mysterious Castiel and whatever ominous 'work' it was that he wanted Dean to do.

It was a phrase that set off warning signs in the hunter's mind, great big red things with flashing lights. The only people he felt like letting use him were gorgeous, well-endowed women, and even then preferably for only one night at a time. In his experience, the grander some mission claimed to be, the more likely it was that someone – most likely Dean – was gonna get screwed over.

The speaker overhead announced that luggage from American Airlines flight 2236 out of Dallas was being unloaded on Carrel 3. Dean lifted his head. That was Faith's. She should be coming down any minute now.

Another two minutes of eagerly scanning the crowd passed before he spotted her, getting off the escalator. She glanced around the large baggage claim area, looking for the proper carrel.

"Faith!" he called, unable to help himself, and he started moving towards her.

Her head whipped around. Their eyes locked. Faith began walking in his direction, her face burning with purpose.

They met in the middle of the room. She dropped her backpack to the ground and stepped into his embrace. The hunter pulled her against his chest, his chin settling neatly on the top of her skull. Her arms wrapped around him, nearly crushing his ribcage. She was shaking silently, drawing in great shuddering breaths as though she had been starved of oxygen.

He had been alive for four days, but only now did it finally feel like he was coming home. People were staring at the two of them, but Dean didn't give a damn. He just closed his eyes and hugged Faith tighter.


	57. Sundown, pt 2

**September 21st, 2008, Eppley Airfield, Omaha, Nebraska, 10:27 p.m.**

"You get everything through customs, okay?" he asked as they broke apart.

Faith responded to the unspoken cue for normalcy, brushing a lock of brown hair away from her face and retrieving her backpack. "Not a hitch. Finally figured out all the right U.K. permits for things . . ."

He followed her to the proper baggage carrel. While she stood on tiptoe to gland up and down the length of the conveyor belt, Dean took advantage of the opportunity for some casual surveillance. There were a few more lines around her eyes and mouth than he remembered; she sure as hell didn't look like some teenager or co-ed anymore. But she dressed much the same: tight dark jeans, black motorcycle boots, a bright red form-fitting leather jacket, black nail polish, and crimson lipstick.

Spotting her fatigued grey duffel bag, the Slayer slipped through the crowd and yanked it easily off the carrel. She walked back to him, grinning. "Okay, Bruce Wayne. Where'd you stash the Batmobile?"

"Parked her just outside." Despite all the crap of the past three days, Dean couldn't help but grin in return. Her smile was infectious. The hunter held out his hand for the duffel bag strap.

Rolling her eyes, Faith passed it over to him. "Thanks."

"How was the flight?" he asked, shouldering the bag and leading the way outside to the parking garage. Faith fell into step beside him.

"Long," she said with a shrug.

"You sleep or anything?"

"Nah. Watched a couple of movies – the Harry Potter one and the new Bourne one that came out last year."

"They any good?"

"You might like the Bourne – the other, not so much."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Pretty sure we're a decade or so older than the intended audience."

In spite of the tension and exhaustion of the last few days, Dean laughed. "So . . . Harry Potter's a kids' movie? Who knew?"

The Slayer dug her elbow into his ribs. "Shut up, you. You're not that funny." They reached the car, and Faith dropped her backpack to the ground. "Hello, gorgeous," she murmured, running a hand over the sleek black exterior.

Still amused, the hunter opened the trunk and set Faith's suitcase on top of the false bottom. "C'mon," he said, taking his place behind the wheel and reaching across the front seat to unlock her door. "Get in. We've got a long drive ahead of us."

* * *

Dean waited over an hour to bring up the things that were on his mind. He had a couple of reasons, some of them almost good ones. At first, there was this air of forced casualness between the two of them, and he couldn't stand trying to talk about anything real until that resolved itself. And then they swung off the highway to pick up a couple of sandwiches at some middle-of-nowhere truck stop, and he was too focused on devouring the splattered mess of mustard, pickles, and two types of salami to say much of anything.

For her part, Faith seemed content to fiddle with the stereo and talk about nothing. He caught her watching him from time to time, though, when she didn't think he was looking. That was a mistake. The hunter was watching her, just as much as she was watching him. It was just a little difficult to believe that she was actually there – that they were both actually there.

An hour and a half in, when the sandwich trash was all balled up into a plastic bag near Faith's left boot and the Creedence tape in the deck was spinning itself to a halt, he started in on the uncomfortable stuff.

"So . . ." he let the word peter out into silence, knowing it would catch her attention.

Feet tucked beneath her, Faith turned to look at him. "So?" she echoed, her voice dropping half an octave, its timbre growing more serious.

Dean kept his eyes firmly on the road. It was easier than trying to read her face. "Develop an interest in demonology while I was gone?"

"It was a temporary thing."

"You summoned the Mayor, you said. That's the guy who –"

"The one I worked for back in SunnyD, yeah." She shifted around to stare out the window. "It's . . . complicated. Demons . . . not all the demons in my line of work are evil, you know. They're not all smoky, black-eyed bastards who reek of sulfur. I knew this one guy – his name was Lorne – lime green, had trouble hurting flies. Like people, there's a good-evil spectrum with demons. Or something. Andrew's written a whole essay on it."

He wasn't buying it. "And where does your Mayor fall on this spectrum of Andrew's? Cuz, frankly, Faith, you told me once that he was going to kill an entire high school graduating class to become an even badder boss demon. Doesn't exactly sound all cute and cuddly."

"It's . . . complicated."

"When isn't it?" Dean asked rhetorically. "You know what? Just answer me this – you said that he was helping you try to find a way to bust into Hell – that's a damnfool idea, by the way. If he was helping you, what did he ask for in return?"

"Nothing."

"Demons don't just help for nothing," he persisted stubbornly. "They've always got something going on – some side angle, some way to get you that you haven't thought of yet. There's always a catch."

"Not this time. Swear to G-d, Dean. It's . . . like I said, it's complicated."

"Un-complicate it for me."

"Fine. The Mayor . . . he's not in your typical Hell dimension. He's somewhere else, somewhere I can't quite get the name on. He gets really shifty whenever I press him about that. And he . . . he thinks of himself like my dad. . . that's what he says, anyway. He wants to help me for the hell of it, I guess."

"And you believe him?" he demanded, keeping his tone as emotionless as possible while his brain fended off the frustration and anger that were rearing their ugly heads. This was worse than Sam's . . . friendship . . . with Ruby last year, before Lilith blew her to smithereens. Faith was older – she knew better.

She moved to head his bad mood off at the pass. "Look, Dean. The Mayor and I . . . we've got history. Back in Sunnydale, he did a lot of things for me – things that he didn't have to do, that weren't at all part of the job description. He took care of me."

"He manipulated you," countered the hunter.

Faith surprised him by agreeing. "Sure, yeah, maybe he did. But that doesn't change the fact that he was genuinely kind to me . . . or the fact that I always felt like he was proud of me. Yeah, maybe he was doing a real good job of straddling the line between human monster and official demon, but there's more to it than that. More to him than that."

After taking a moment to process, Dean wondered, "You still talk to him?"

"No," said the Slayer flatly. "Not since I got back from Quor'toth. He'd run out of ideas . . . it was kinda pointless."

"You were using him." It was neither compliment nor criticism.

"Well, yeah. Didn't work out super great, though. Couldn't . . . well, couldn't bring you back."

They were close to it, the thing that neither of them wanted to acknowledge, and Dean could hear the trembling in her voice. But he wasn't quite ready to talk about that yet, so he went in another direction.

"All that research you did, before . . . and after . . . you ever come across anything about angels?"

"Angels?" she repeated, her attention once more completely focused on him. Her eyes glinted in the light of the dashboard, sharp and curious. "No . . . not really. I mean, I skimmed through the Clif Notes version of the Bible, but angels are more messengers and glorified accessories than anything in the Four Gospels. Other than that, they never really came up."

"Do you . . . " Dean wavered and then just went for it. "I dunno if we've ever really talked about this before or not, but do you believe in God? In Heaven and angels and stuff like that?"

"Kinda shooting out of left field tonight, aren't you?" But she still gave his question a good minute of thought. "Seems like I run into half a dozen demons a week, so it's impossible not to acknowledge them. And I believe in Hell. Angel got sent to a torture-focused Hell dimension once. He was there for a hundred years, and sometimes he still gets a little spazzy."

She slurped pensively on the straw of her Dr. Pepper. "Heaven, though? I dunno. Buffy thinks she was in Heaven, that time when she died. Not that she told me that, of course – I got Spike drunk on Jaegermeister, and he spilled the beans . . . What's on your mind?"

"Bobby and I summoned it last night – the thing that brought me back." He was half-talking, half-babbling now, and the whole, weird story came tumbling out. Waking up six feet under in some pine box; hot-wiring his way back to South Dakota; finding Sam with some half-dressed co-ed; Pamela the seer; the demons in the diner – he recounted the last four days in short, clipped sentences. Not once did Faith interrupt him, and Dean was silently grateful for that.

Finally, he reached the big finale – the abandoned barn and the so-called angel who claimed to have "raised him from perdition." At this point, Dean described the blistering lesion on his left shoulder and promised to show it to her later, when he wasn't doing eighty miles an hour.

"Wow," said the Slayer quietly, when he had talked himself into silence. "That's . . . that's . . . he said he was an angel?"

"Not just an angel. He had to douche it up by calling himself an 'angel of the Lord.'"

"Angels come in some other kind?"

"Not that I know of."

"Did he have wings?"

Dean snorted. "No. At least, not one's you could see, but then again he was wearing someone else's body, so who knows what he looks like when he's in his birthday suit?"

The Slayer shook her head fiercely to rid herself of the mental image of some middle-aged H&R Block guy not wearing underpants. "Ugh. Thanks for that, Dean."

"And . . . and the weirdest part . . ."

"Weirder than naked accountants?"

"The weirdest part was when he said that God wanted me pulled out of there. I mean – he's gotta be lying. It can't actually be an angel. They don't actually exist – right?"

Faith fiddled with her seatbelt. "I don't know. Angels, God, religion . . . not really my thing. The last time I was in a church, I was beating the hell out of my own face – long story. I used to think . . . I used to be sure that none of it was real, all that 'come to Jesus' stuff that they preach in Sunday school. That it was just another fairy story, like all the rest, designed to make your kids act the way you wanted them to."

The Slayer exhaled slowly. "Thing is, Dean, turns out most of those scary fairy stories are true. I've fought them. You and Sam've fought them. So . . . it makes a weird kind of sense that some of the cheerful stuff might be true, too."

He didn't much like what he was hearing. "Are you . . . are you saying that you changed your mind?"

"No – yes – maybe. Look, I shouldn't have done this, and I know that . . . but a couple of weeks ago, I kinda started giving up. I'd done everything I could think of, everything people smarter than me could think of, and you were still deader than a doornail."

"Faith –"

"Just let me finish. I was so close to giving up. Just couldn't do it anymore, I guess. I was trying everything – I even prayed a time or two."

"You . . . prayed? I thought you didn't believe in God."

"You were dead, Dean. I'd've prayed to Santa Clause if I thought he could've ridden Rudolph down into the Pit and dragged you out."

"Too bad you didn't call him in. Something tells me that Ole Saint Nick would've been friendlier than this Castiel, whoever the hell he really is."

"Mmm."

A new thought struck him. "So . . . in your emails, you sounded pretty pissed at Sam. What happened?"

"He went radio silent. Phone was disconnected, he wouldn't answer his emails . . . he just disappeared. He warned me first, though, which was good. At least that way I was just pissed, not worried that he'd gotten in over his head on something."

"You were worried about Sam?"

"He's your brother. Isn't trouble in your genes or something? Anyway, it . . . it was a long summer."

"So everyone keeps telling me," Dean grumbled under his breath. "Sam summons crossroads demons and disappears, Bobby turns his house into a liquor store, you go anorexic and drop ten pounds – what? You didn't think I'd notice?"

Faith took her time picking her words. "I haven't been eating well," she said after thirty seconds' quiet. "Or sleeping well. The Do-Gooders Society got me to quit smoking and drinking sometime in June. It's been awful. Feels like I'm constantly about to get the shakes . . ."

"That sucks."

"Yeah."

"You planning on sticking to that? The no-alcohol thing, I mean?"

"Heh. Kinda hard to imagine, isn't it? Me completely dry. I dunno. I actually don't miss the cigarettes too much. Picked 'em up in prison – something to pass the time, you know. But I could kill for a good beer or a shot of whiskey . . ."

"You ever ready to jump off the wagon, I'm sure we can find something at Bobby's to help you down."

"So generous of you . . . offering someone else's whiskey . . ."

Dean took his gaze off the road long enough to grin wolfishly at her. "You know me," he said with an odd blend of sincerity and sarcasm. "Anything for a friend."

* * *

Two a.m. came and went by the time the black Chevrolet Impala pulled into Singer Auto Self Service Salvage Yard. After parking the car on the far side of the house, the hunter turned to his sleeping passenger. Faith had passed out half an hour ago, her cheek pressed against the cold window glass. Calling her name, he tapped her on the shoulder.

The Slayer jerked upright. In less time than Dean could take a breath, a switchblade appeared in her hands. Her eyes still half-closed, Faith flicked the knife open in the space between them, guarding herself.

"Easy there, tiger. It's just me."

She blinked heavily and rubbed at her face. "Dean?" she said in a subdued tone. "I thought . . . not just a dream, then?"

"No." Dean opened his door, and the chilly September air swept through the stuffy front seat. "Can't get rid of me that quick."

"Mmph." Faith stumbled out of the car onto the gravel drive. She tugged her backpack up out of the floorboard and onto one shoulder. "What time is it?" she asked grumpily.

"Two-thirty, give or take."

"I hate you," the Slayer groaned, knocking on the trunk while she waited for him to open it.

"No, you don't," Dean countered with a smirk as he pushed her aside with a hip and grabbed her duffel for her.

Faith shoved back, bumping his hip with hers. "Okay, you're right. I don't. I just want to stop being awake right now."

The hunter chuckled quietly. "Give it ten minutes, and we'll have you all set up."

With the sole exception of a faded yellow bulb on the back porch, all of the lights in the house were out. Dean fished a single steel key out of his back pocket and unlocked the rear door. "Don't be loud," he warned unnecessarily, holding the door open as Faith stepped past him into a carpeted hallway. "I think everyone's sleeping."

"Got it," the Slayer whispered back, placing each foot carefully on the puckered floorboards. She walked ten feet down the hall and stopped. "Where to now?"

Locking the door behind them, Dean padded softly across the hallway into a living room crowded by mountains of books, a heavy wooden desk, and a faded couch. Sam lay sprawled out across the couch, breathing loudly in his sleep.

"You need to use the bathroom?" the hunter asked, setting Faith's bag on the floor beside a much-abused coffee table.

"I'm good. Just tired."

"Right. There's a couple of bedrooms upstairs, but they're not furnished. Since we were kids, Sam and I always've traded off between the couch and the floor. I can wake him up if you want, turf him out . . ."

That sounded like a far more ambitious project than Faith felt like dealing with just now. "'S okay. Long as you got blankets, floor'll be fine."

"Yeah. I'll grab some extras from the linen closet upstairs – be right back."

While she waited, Faith perched on the edge of the rickety coffee table and slowly undressed. She removed her jacket, belt, and bra, placing them in a neat heap on top of her duffel, the brassiere tucked inside the jacket. By the time the gentle creaking of the stairs announced Dean's return, she had unlaced her boots and added them to the pile.

Arms laden with a stack of blankets, the hunter did not comment on the change. Still moving quietly, he spread a thick blanket on the floor and set two folded blankets at one end for a pillow, passing Faith a frayed quilt to cover up with. Dean then set up his own impromptu bedroll and collapsed onto it, folding his hands beneath his head and closing his eyes. It had been a devil of a day.

"Feels like summer camp," the Slayer joked in a whisper, laying down on the floor between Dean and the couch. She stretched out on her back and looked up at the shadowed ceiling.

"Never been."

"Me neither."

They lay there in silence, allowing the soft noises of the settling house to lull them into sleep. Just before she drifted off, Faith mumbled, "I missed this."

Dean exhaled. It might have been a chuckle, or it might have been a sigh. Faith couldn't tell. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. "Me, too."


	58. Sundown, pt 3

**September 22nd, 2008, Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 9:30 a.m.**

There were footsteps moving around her head, footsteps that made the mattress beneath her tremble. Wait. That didn't make sense. Eyes closed tight, Faith slowly pieced together her surroundings, from the scratchy wool blanket she was wrapped in to the faint creaking of wooden floorboards as someone crossed the room. She was in South Dakota, not London, and it wasn't her mattress shaking but someone else's floor.

The Slayer wondered vaguely what time it was. She opened her eyelids a fraction. Probably late morning, then, judging by the amount of sunlight that pierced her eyelashes. Huh. She had slept for longer than anticipated. And, what was better, she hadn't dreamt. Not once.

Heavy footsteps came back her way, and someone stepped over her. Couch springs squeaked as they sat down on the couch to her right.

"Took you long enough," grumbled a deep voice on her left. "Bobby and I were going to send a search party into the bathroom to drag you out if you stayed in much longer."

"Funny, Dean," said Sam from his place on the couch. He didn't sound too amused. "Faith still out?"

"Nah. She's just playing possum. Aren't you, Faith?" A sock-covered foot nudged her in the ribs.

Reluctantly, Faith opened her eyes all the way and pushed herself up onto her elbows. "Stop it," she ordered, flicking the side of Dean's ankle, hard. "How'd you know?"

Chuckling, the hunter walked away, a change of clothes and his shaving kit in his hands. "I saw your eyelashes move, double-oh-seven. You might want to work on your stealth."

Grinning in spite of herself, the Slayer lazily extended one of her middle fingers in his direction. "Get outta here." She watched him until he disappeared around the corner of the hallway and then turned to look at the younger Winchester. Faith tossed her head and ran a hand through her tangled brown hair.

"Morning, Sam. Long time, no talk."

Water trickled from the ends of Sam's shaggy mop down onto the collar of his shirt. Faith couldn't quite decide on the color. It was somewhere between moss green and puce, and the dark blue stripes across the shoulders and the sides were not helping. Lily would have had him out of that shirt in fifteen seconds flat – not because she was into him, but because it was so damn ugly.

The hunter tugged at the collar of the horrendous shirt awkwardly. "I'm sorry about that," he apologized, meeting her eyes with an earnest, limpid gaze. "It was a rough summer."

"Yeah. Don't have to tell me twice on that one." Looking away from the trademark puppy-dog pout, Faith got to her feet, her bladder uncomfortably full. Dean had better hurry up in that shower. She folded the scratchy blanket as well as the one she had been sleeping on and then reached for her jacket and boots.

When she had finished pulling her clothes on, Faith finger-combed her hair back into a ponytail. She plopped down onto the couch next to Sam, their elbows brushing. "So," she said, and although her mouth was smiling, something hard glinted in her brown eyes. "Tell me, Sam. What'd you get up to this summer?"

Sam shifted away from her. "I drank . . . a lot. Tried to bargain, no one listened. You?"

The Slayer nudged his shoulder with her own. "Pretty much the same. Your liver give out yet?"

An expression vaguely resembling a smile worked its way across his features. "Not just yet."

"Huh. Must be a Winchester thing – or a hunter one."

"Something like that. How's yours?"

"Mine?" Faith patted her right lower rib cage dramatically. "It's a champ."

More seriously, the hunter changed the subject. "Dean gave me an earful already, but I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for pulling a disappearing act after . . . well, you know."

The earnestness in his eyes made her want to run. "It's okay," she said in an effort to end this conversation. "It happened. No need to talk about it." The Slayer stood and brushed unnecessarily at the front of her jeans. "Here's an idea – while we're waiting for your brother, how about you give me a tour of the place?"

"Yeah, okay." Sam lumbered to his feet. Up close, he towered over her, and Faith took a step backwards so she didn't have to crane her neck quite so much to see his face.

"How tall are you?" she asked suspiciously.

"Six-four. Why?"

"You eat the whole grocery store's worth of Wheaties when you were a kid or something?"

"That's a pretty good guess," said an unfamiliar voice.

Faith whirled on her heel to take in the newcomer. He was an older man in his mid-fifties, dressed in jeans, an open plaid shirt over a faded gray T-shirt, and a blue and white ball cap. His closely trimmed beard and mustache were a mixture of brown and grey, and he had a slight paunch around his middle. It was his eyes that more closely drew her attention. Brown and a little beady, they stared her down unflinchingly.

The man stuck out his hand in her direction. "Bobby Singer."

She took the hint and shook it. Bobby Singer had a good handshake, his grip hard and firm without being overeager or aggressive. His palm was callused, too, something that she always appreciated. "Faith Lehane."

"So you're the Slayer." The older hunter looked her up and down. Faith got the rather awkward impression that she was being evaluated. "Dean's friend with the vampire-killing superpowers."

"That's me. Thanks for letting me crash."

"Any friend of the boys . . . " Bobby stepped over the folded blankets on the floor as he made his way around the stacks and stacks of books and papers that surrounded his work desk. He glanced at the darkened coals in the fireplace and gave them an experimental nudge with the toe of his boot.

Drawing out the creaky office chair, he shifted some of the piles to clear a workspace on the desk and sat down. "There's leftover pizza in the kitchen if you're hungry. Or you can help yourself to whatever's in the fridge. Not much, but I think there might be a couple of eggs in there."

"Thanks," Faith repeated, feeling more comfortable now that he was no longer looking directly at her. "C'mon, Sam. Let's eat."

* * *

**September 22nd, 2008, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 11:30 a.m.**

While Faith had been first in the shower and then sitting on the front porch making calls to London, San Francisco, and Cleveland, the three hunters had had themselves a roiling theological discussion. Although perhaps the word 'discussion' was putting it lightly. Sam had taken off on a snack run just as Faith finally wrapped up a long debate about Eyghon tactics with Angel.

That left her, Dean, and Bobby to do more research on Castiel, the angel of Thursdays, with a stack of dusty books a foot high. She had attempted to help out, even going so far as to open an Apocryphal copy of Revelation and skim the first ten chapters, sprawled out on the vintage carpet of the living room. Now, the Slayer looked across the open doorway to the kitchen linoleum and the cluttered desk where Dean was sitting. He hadn't turned a page in the last three minutes.

Faith kept glancing up at him every thirty seconds or so, waiting for the hunter to give up on the books. She couldn't focus. The sunlight coursing through the large living room bay windows was taunting her. It had rained the last three weeks straight in London, and the idea of an actual, real, American fall day just out of her reach felt like sheer torture. Kicking her feet in the air aimlessly, she shifted her weight from one hip to the other.

A heavy thud came from the gigantic desk behind her. Flinching, Faith rolled over onto her back and sat up, making eye contact with Bobby Singer. He was staring down at her with a no-nonsense, cut-the-crap expression, and for half a second, she almost felt guilty. Then his face relaxed into a half-smile.

"Dean!" His voice rang through the downstairs.

Gaze unfocused and drowsy, the younger man raised his head. "Yeah?"

"These books aren't going anywhere. Why don't you two head outside?"

Tucking a gas receipt in to mark his page, Dean pushed his chair backwards. "Bobby, you said it yourself earlier – if we want to get a handle on this thing, we'd better start reading . . ."

Bobby shrugged. "She's twitchy," he said with a pointed look at Faith. "Can't get any work done with her around. Go outside. Books'll still be here when you get back."

He didn't need to give Faith permission twice. "Come on." She was off the floor and across the kitchen in half an instant. Her hand closed around Dean's wrist. "Let's go."

"Thanks, Bobby!" Dean called back over his shoulder, following the Slayer through the front door, down the porch steps, and onto the gravel drive.

Once outside, the Slayer released her grip, tugging off her jacket and draping it across the porch railing. She turned in a circle, her arms held up to the sky. "It's so empty out here."

"Yeah?" he leaned back on Bobby's Chevelle and cocked an eyebrow. "You've been in the city too long. It's screwed with your head."

Nothing could ruin Faith's mood today, not when the sun warmed her skin and the wind whispered promises of freedom. "You spent time here as a kid, right?"

The hunter nodded. "On and off. Whenever Dad and Bobby weren't in the middle of some argument."

"So you know all the secrets of the junk yard."

"Salvage yard."

"Whatever. Show time?"

Dean looked her over, his eyes narrowed. Then he pushed off the Chevelle and started heading down one of the rows of abandoned cars. "Follow me."

* * *

An hour or so later, the two monster fighters were sitting in the back of some rusty old Ford F150, their shoulders up against the cab, the metal truck bed beneath their stretched-out legs rusting through in places. Earlier, Faith had explained Quor'toth in excruciating detail, making Dean grateful that he remembered nothing more of Hell than brief snatches of fire and pain.

Now, they had circled themselves around to a familiar topic of debate – how to kill monsters. They talked through all the monsters they had individually faced since the last time they had had this conversation, updating each other on tactics. Whenever they had conflicting experiences with a particular breed of nasty, either Faith or Dean suggested tabling it until they could check in with Sam or Bobby or Angel or a book of lore.

"We should start a wiki page," decided Faith after they wrapped up an awkward verbal tug of war over whether or not there was a successful cure for werewolves.

"Like what - a website on how to kill things?" Dean tilted his head to one side and regarded her out of the corner of his eye. In the heat of the warm fall day, he had rolled up the sleeves of his henley past his elbows.

"Something like that. Some place where people can get accurate information. You know . . . like if the vamp has four canine fangs and gets all Cro-Magnon brow face, then you go for the holy water and a a stake to the heart. And if they've got a zillion razor sharp retractable fangs and don't go all caveman, then you wanna get dead man's blood and a machete."

"Either way, you could always go right for decapitation."

"Yeah, but most Slayers are going to go for the stake. Every time. It's how they're – we're – trained. Anyway, it was just an example."

"Who'd run it?"

That didn't require much thought. "Andrew. Maybe Vi – she's one of the Slayers who survived Sunnydale. She's a bit –" Faith made a swirly gesture in the air with both of her hands – "different. Super quiet sometimes, super out there the rest of the time. Kind of a nerd."

"Nerd like Sam or nerd like Andrew?"

"Ehh. Somewhere in the middle."

"Huh."

At that instant, Dean's cell phone went off, a rollicking guitar solo that echoed out across the empty salvage yard. He shifted his weight to dig the chunk of black plastic out of his back pocket. "Hello?" The hunter listened for a moment to the person on the other end of the line. "Yeah. Uh huh. Got it. On our way."

He shoved the phone back into his jeans and pushed himself up off the truck cab. "Come on. Gossip hour's over."

Faith took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. "We got a case?" she said eagerly as they jumped out of the pickup bed.

"What are you, part hunter now?" Dean asked rhetorically, leading the way back through the lines of gutted cars along paths that he had learned in childhood. Years had passed, and most of the junkers here were not the same ones that he had explored as a boy. Still, the layout was much the same as it had always been.

"You wish," scoffed the Slayer at his elbow. "I'm just getting a little bored. Too much sitting around. I haven't gone this long without staking or gutting something in at least a month."

Dean swung around to stare at her. "What the hell kinda show you running over there?"

She brushed past him, grinning in a way that didn't quite reach her eyes. "We both got angel problems, all long coaty and enigmatic. Mine just happens to use a capital 'A' and drag me into heaps of crap. On second thought, the crap thing's probably gonna apply to yours, too."

"I don't believe in angels," he grunted, easily reclaiming the lead.

"Mmm. Well, apparently real angels or faux angels, whoever this Castiel works for, they believe in you. So . . . we got a case?"

"Bobby's got an old flame, hunter who lives a few hours across the state line. She hasn't been picking up her phone in the last three days. We're gonna go check on her, soon as Sam gets back."

"Four people for a recon?"

"Just in case things go South. Bobby's got a bad feeling about this."

"And he's usually right about these things?" Faith filled in the blanks.

"You don't make it as long in this business as Bobby has without developing some kinda good gut instinct."

The Slayer eyed the back of his head. "And what's your gut say?" she wondered aloud.

Dean glanced over his shoulder to make sure she was still following. "My gut says expect the worst," he replied flatly. "Yours?"

"Something like that."

They rounded the corner of the house. While she darted away to retrieve her jacket, Dean headed inside to find Bobby. It was beyond time to get back to work again.

* * *

**September 22nd, 2008, Broken Bow, Nebraska, 6:15 p.m.**

The first two hours of the drive blurred by as Faith catnapped in the backseat. She drifted in and out of consciousness, the bickering and good-natured ribbing passing back and forth between the two hunters up front lulling her to sleep.

Every now and then, whenever Sam reached over her to open the cooler in the floorboard by her feet or Dean slammed on the brakes to avoid plowing into some old geezer who'd had the misfortune of pulling onto the highway just in front of his baby, the Slayer opened her eyes briefly. Soon, however, the purring of the engine and the muted wailing of guitars on the stereo drew her back down into the darkness behind her eyelids.

Finally, they reached Olivia's place. Sam opened the passenger's side rear door, the blast of cool air instantly waking the Slayer. She lurched to a sitting position and lumbered outside.

The hunter's house was the Midwest equivalent of a New England saltbox, a squat two-story framed in white clapboards. A single streetlight shone down on the deserted pavement and the narrow gravel drive. No lights were on in the house itself. While Faith stepped from one foot to the other in a quiet attempt to wake herself completely, she watched the hunters arm up. She had her Smith & Wesson on one hip and an old Russian naval dirk on the other, with a stake in the inside pocket of her leather jacket.

Sliding her fingers through the holes of a new set of brass knuckles, she followed the men inside. The instant Bobby pushed open the front door, Faith rocked back onto her heels. She knew that smell. The Slayer stayed in the rear of the group as they crept into the house and began to check that all the rooms were clear. Faith went with her nose. It had never really failed her before, and so she was entirely unsurprised when they found Olivia lying on the edges of a almost closed salt circle, her ribcage gaping open, bloody and raw.

She only half-listened to the exclamations of grief and dismay from the others. Instead, Faith crouched down by the corpse, examining her wound. Whatever thing had killed Olivia, they hadn't been much focused on technique or precision. The great vessels that had connected to the heart – the aorta, the main pulmonary artery, the fragile, thin-walled veins – all these had ragged, torn edges. Her heart had been ripped from her chest, not cut out.

"What do you think it was?" she heard Sam asking his brother in an undertone. The older Winchester leaned over and picked up an handheld piece of electronics, still flashing red and whirring unhappily.

"Olivia was rocking the EMF meter," Dean replied, frowning. He glanced over at the dead hunter and then looked away.

"Spirit activity," confirmed Sam.

"Uh huh. Never seen one this hopped on steroids before. What do you make of it, Faith?"

Faith slowly rose to her feet. Ghosts, spirits, those weren't her thing. She liked something solid, something you could slam a blade or a stake or an arrow into, something that didn't have a nasty habit of walking through walls and appearing out of nowhere. "Not my area of expertise, exactly, but whatever did this, they seem kinda pissed."

Sam snorted, a little hysterically. "Kinda?"

"Okay, really pissed."

"So we got a really pissed-off spirit on steroids." Dean ran a hand over the back of his neck. "Yeah, this sounds great."

Bobby stepped back into the room, his face like a thundercloud. "I called some other hunters in the area," he said, his voice stiff, purposefully not looking too hard in Olivia's direction.

"Yeah? That'd be good – we getting some help for once?"

The older man shook his head 'no' in answer to Dean's question. "Except ain't none of them answering, either."

His face falling, Sam pointed out, "We got a problem."

"You think?" Bobby snapped back. "Better get on the road. You three take care of Olivia, then you go check on Jed over in Jackson. I'll head west, drop in on Carl Bates and R.C. Adams, and hope to God I'm wrong about this."

Before anyone could argue with his plan, he had stomped out the door. His Chevelle was already roaring to life by the time Dean made it onto the front porch to call after him.

"Dammit," the hunter groaned, returning to the blood-streaked living room. "I hate it when he does that."

"He do that a lot?" wondered Faith.

Dean didn't bother to answer her. "Sam, you know what we gotta do."

His brother nodded.

"Okay, then. You get the axe from the trunk, go out back, start getting some wood together. Faith, I want you to find the bedroom, get as many sheets as you can find – white ones would be best – and bring 'em back to me. I'll get started here."

This was a first for Faith, wandering through a dead woman's house to put together a make-shift burial shroud. She took the steep, narrow stairway up to the second floor two steps at a time. There were two bedrooms on the upper floor, one of which had dust spread across the coverlet. The other bedroom, with the sheets half-made and four pairs of shoes strewn across the carpet, must have been Olivia's. Faith stripped both beds.

Leaving the comforters behind, the Slayer folded the bedsheets and then ransacked the cupboards in search of more white linen. She found an extra top sheet and fitted sheet, which she added to her pile. It made six total.

Dean was waiting for her downstairs. In her absence, he had moved Olivia's body into a better position. His hands were streaked a rusty red from where he had attempted to shove her ribs back into place. Olivia's arms were now folded across the hole in her chest, and her eyes had been brushed closed.

"I've got the sheets."

"Thanks." Taking the three folded sheets, the hunter spread them out across the living room floor. He moved down to Olivia's feet and gripped her ankles. "Get her head. Okay, here we go. One, two, three."

On the count of three, they lifted Olivia off the floor and moved her onto the fabric. Dean began wrapping the free edges of the folded sheets around her body. "You got a knife?"

"Yeah?"

"Cut one of those into strips – six inches wide, and do it the long way. You got that?"

"Yessirr."

"Good."

Faith sat on the edge of the couch, shredding up a top sheet into the desired strips. While the Slayer went to work, Dean continued to wrap the body in the remaining two top sheets. When he finished with that, he tied them into place with the lengths of cotton. Finally, when the dead woman was completely and carefully wrapped in her shroud, the hunter sighed.

"Better go help Sam," he announced as he straightened upright with a slight wince. "See how he's coming along."

"Should I . . . what should I . . ." Faith glanced awkwardly between the man and the linen-wrapped corpse.

"She's not going anywhere. Come on. We've done about all we can do for her now."

In the backyard, Sam had started building a pyre with whatever pieces of wood he could find. The base was made out of a couple of wooden pallets, on top of which was piled Olivia's firewood. Three feet high, seven feet long, and three feet wide, it was almost complete.

Dean walked into the trees, headed for the sound of his little brother's axe. "Good job, Sammy."

"She had most of it stockpiled for the winter, so it's not that impressive." The chopping noise ceased.

A few minutes later, the two brothers stepped back out of the woods, their arms laden with thick branches.

"Faith – there's a can of gasoline and a bag of rock salt in the trunk."

"On it."

When she returned, they had finished building. Dean had the toe of his boot against the back door, propping it open as Sam gingerly made his way through the frame, the white bundle in his arms. Together, the Winchesters placed Olivia's corpse on top of her funeral pyre. Then, Dean took the gas can and Sam the heavy paper bag.. They worked around each other until both wood and corpse were drenched in gasoline and liberally coated in salt.

"Sorry, Olivia." Dean's voice was an odd mixture of the gruff and the gentle. He flicked a disposable Bic lighter in one hand and dropped it onto the pyre. The gasoline ignited in a great heap of flame and smoke.

The three of them watched in silence, waiting as the fire consumed the dead hunter's remains. When at long last Olivia had burned to ashes, Sam turned on the outdoor hose and sluiced the pyre down, leaving the wood to smolder on the concrete patio.

"We'd better check on Jed," he said in a subdued voice.

Dean gave the ashes another long, considering look before turning away. "You're right." He clapped a hand on Faith's shoulder. "Time to get moving."

* * *

**September 23rd, 2008, Jackson, Nebraska, 1:00 a.m.**

The story at Jed's place was much the same as at Olivia's. Remnants of a salt circle, blood every which way, a dead hunter with his heart missing. This time, Faith made the shroud on her own while Dean and Sam called Bobby and assembled another makeshift pyre. While this fire slowly charred through Jed's flesh and bone, the two brothers stood off to one side, discussing what in hellfire might be going on in lowered voices.

Faith didn't bother trying to eavesdrop. Like she'd said earlier, spirits weren't exactly her forte. The title was  _Vampire_  Slayer for a reason.

Watching the flames dance and leap, she fiddled with the cell phone in her pocket. There hadn't been so much as a peep from England for the last twelve hours, and she was starting to get antsy. In theory, Spike, Angel, Nadira, and the U.K. squad of Slayers were more than capable of dealing with Eyghon and finding Giles' body. In practice, Faith had deep reservations.

There was so much that could go wrong with all of their contingency plans, and she knew it. She was supposed to be there – she ought to be there – but then she glanced across the fire to the the hunters on the other side of the pyre, and some of her guilt dissipated.

She owed Dean more than she owed Nadira – or Angel, for that matter, the Slayer reasoned as the Winchester brothers came wandering back over to her. Besides, for the first time in a long while, she actually wanted to be where she was.

"Bobby wants us to haul ass back to his place," announced Dean when he got within a few feet of her, close enough that his quiet voice carried, despite the noise of the wind. "Sammy here thinks we've got about how long again?"

"Five minutes."

"Right. Five minutes until we're good to go here."

"What do you guys think is going on?"

The brothers exchanged meaningful glances. "Not really sure, but whatever it is, it's taken out at least four hunters that we know of. I'm gonna hit the head. While I'm gone, Sam'll give you the refresher course on pissed-off, vengeful spirits, okay?"

She nodded. "Sounds good." The Slayer waited until he had disappeared through Jed's screen door before looking Sam up and down predatorily. Anything to lighten the mood. "So, you're gonna teach me, huh?"

"I take it you know the basics?"

"Casper's sensitive to salt and iron, so use salt rounds or iron bullets, keep your trusty poker handy, and hope to Hell they don't get close enough to get all touchy feely with your insides. That about cover it?"

"Yep."

"Thought so."

Neither of them spoke for a long moment, and then Faith dug up the courage to finally ask something that'd been on her mind for the last few hours. "How many people – how many hunters – have you and Dean . . . you know . . ." She let the words trail off.

"How many hunters have we buried?"

"Is buried the word?"

"I dunno. Closest one there is, I think." Sam inhaled deeply through his nose. "You quiet a restless ghost by salting and burning their bones – which I'm sure you know – but besides today, the only hunter I've ever . . . laid to rest, I guess would be the phrase, well, it was my dad."

"Oh. I'm . . . I'm sorry."

Sam raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. The light of the fire created new lines and shadows in his face, and Faith was captivated by the way it made him look different – mysterious and strange. "It's been a few years," he said nonchalantly. "Time heals, I guess. And, well, to be honest, losing Dean was worse."

"Mmm."

The man in question stepped back outside to join them, the screen door swinging itself closed with a wooden thunk behind him. "You two Girl Scouts finished planning out your cookie sales?" he teased. "You'd better get it right this time. Last year, Sam didn't even save me some damn Thin Mints."

His younger brother instantly relaxed. "Dude. What was I supposed to do? You were all broody over Bendy Lisa. You told me you didn't want any."

"Sure, sure. The one time you actually listen to me . . ."

Faith glanced from one Winchester to the next. "Bendy Lisa? There a story behind that?"

"Old flame of Dean's. We drove two states out of our way to look her up last year."

"She still bendy?"

"Okay, you two. That's it. Get in the car.  _Now_."


	59. Sundown, pt 4

**September 23rd, 2008, 3:00 a.m.**

"Hey." A rough hand jerked on Faith's shoulder, startling her awake. "Where'd Sam go?"

Her eyes felt like they'd been glued shut, but the Slayer glanced around the darkened car and the empty gas station parking lot anyway. "Dunno," she mumbled. "I was sleeping. Maybe he went inside or something? What's wrong?"

"I got a bad feeling about this." He gripped the lapels of her jacket and hauled her out of the backseat, leaning her up against the metal of the Impala before Faith could so much as holler. Dean shoved a tire iron into her hands. "You stay here," he said warningly as he grabbed a flashlight and his sawed-off shotgun out of the trunk. "I'm gonna go find Sam."

"Dean?" she called after his retreating back. "Dean? Dammit," the Slayer growled to the silent pumping station.

Clenching and unclenching her fingers around the shaft of the tire iron, she started humming under her breath. After the warmth of the car ride, the windy night was unexpectedly chilly. Despite the protection of her leather jacket, Faith shivered. Three a.m. in Nebraska wasn't exactly what she would call balmy.

"Think you'd know how to dress yourself for the weather by now."

The Slayer spun on her Doc Marten boot heel.

"You weren't expecting me, were you?"

The tire iron swung freely in Faith's hands, an awkward metal pendulum. "Not exactly." She eyed the newcomer, a spectral figure of a young woman in her late teens, her black hair streaked with faded turquoise, her artistically ripped jeans and alt rock band T-shirt purposefully provocative. "Marianne?"

"I'm surprised you remember my name." The teenager slowly circled her way closer and closer. "You, so high and mighty – a real Slayer. Better than the rest of us plebs, am I right?"

"That's not true." Faith brought the tire iron up into a guard position. "I never acted like that – like I was better than you."

"But you thought you were, didn't you?" snarled the ghost. "You and your plans . . . so much better than anyone else. We didn't deserve to know the truth – you were protecting that bastard Angelus. You kept him a secret from us. You conspired with him, and when your plans brought back Eyghon the Destroyer, who paid the price? Oh, yeah. That's right – me!"

"Marianne, I'm sor – "

"No! You don't get to talk. I died. I was a Slayer, and I  _died_. And you and your vampire boyfriend had the power to bring me back, and you didn't! You're not sorry, Faith. Not by a long shot. But don't worry." Marianne smiled tightly, her eyes burning with fury. "I'll make you plenty sorry."

The dead Slayer had inched her way nearer and nearer until she was a mere arm's length away from Faith. She reached out with a pale hand, her fingers wrought into claws. Too close. Lashing out with the tire iron, Faith swept the metal through Marianne's torso from left shoulder to right hip.

As the ghost dissipated into a wispy cloud of smoke, the real Slayer slumped against the side of the car, the tire iron clutched in her hand. She was waiting there still, shoulders hunched up halfway to her ears, when Sam and Dean finally came into view, slowly walking around the far corner of the gas station. Dean had one arm wrapped around his younger brother's torso, supporting him.

Faith stepped forward. "Everything okay?"

"I'm good," wheezed Sam as he slowly lowered himself into the front seat of the Impala. "Right, Dean?"

Carefully setting his shotgun down on the floorboard, Dean muttered something incoherent under his breath. "Sammy here got a visitor in the bathroom – and not the fun kind. How 'bout you?" He twisted around to glance out the back windshield as he reversed out of the gas station parking lot. "Anything?"

"I had a little company." Clicking the buckle on her seatbelt, she chose her words with care. Their eyes met in the rearview mirror, her gaze emotionless, his challenging. "Nothing I couldn't handle," the Slayer added.

"Who was it?"

"Teenage girl from the U.K. She died a couple of months after being activated."

"Huh."

"Activated. You make it sound like she was a terrorist or something," commented Sam, resting his head against the window glass, his long arms folded across his stomach.

Faith brushed this off easily. It wasn't even that far from the truth, depending on who was doing the evaluating. Every demon and vampire worth their salt would definitely have called her a terrorist. The Mayor had said similar things about Buffy and crew, although he always seemed to draw the line with the word 'hooligans.' "Guess it's a matter of perspective. Who did you see?"

"Henricksen." As the heater sputtered back to life in the Impala, Sam slumped even further against his seat. If he was aware of the concerned looks his brother keep shooting his way, he ignored them.

"That FBI who was on your case the last two years? The one who kept harassing my parole officer?"

Dean took a sharp left to get them back up on the highway. "That's the one. I'm gonna try Bobby, let him know what's going on. You okay?" he asked Faith more seriously.

The Slayer smiled at his reflection in the mirror. "Like I said, Dean, nothing I couldn't handle."

* * *

They drove through the rest of the night, the silence in the car punctuated only by Dean's attempts to screen Sam for a concussion and his irritated swearing each time he tried and failed to raise Bobby on the phone. In his agitation, he never once fiddled with the radio, instead drumming a rapid, inconsistent tattoo on the steering wheel rim with his thumbs. His worry permeated throughout the Impala until the air practically radiated with tension.

Although Sam drifted off soon after his brother stopped pestering him, Faith could not manage to do the same. She listened to the hunters' breathing, surprised at its clarity over the rumbling of the engine. Her cell phone sat heavy in her hand, and she kept turning it over and over every few seconds. Like's Dean's impromptu cadence, it was something to do.

The sun had just finished coming up, burning off the last of the early morning mist, when they pulled back into the Auto Salvage Yard. Dean slammed onto the brakes, and the Impala screeched to a halt near Bobby's back door, the friction between her tires and the gravel drive creating an odor of burning rubber that stretched out twenty yards behind them.

Both Winchesters were out of the car before Faith could even unbuckle her seatbelt. By the time she and her tire iron joined them at the trunk, Dean and Sam were halfway through arming themselves. A nearly empty box of green shells sat open on the edge of the trunk while the brothers hastily reloaded twin sawed-off shotguns, the imprints of their revolvers clearly visible against the waistbands of their jeans. They glanced up as she approached.

"What'dya got for me?"

Dean took one hand off his shotgun and reached further back into the trunk for a pistol strapped to the underside of the false trunk bottom. "Here." He passed her the Smith & Wesson and indicated another battered cardboard box of rounds, this one bearing the legend 'iron, 9mm.' "This takes 11 rounds. Load up."

Allowing the tire iron to drop from her grip, Faith took the revolver. After sliding the safety mechanism home, she removed the magazine. An empty casing tumbled out onto the ground where it clinked as it collided against the gravel. Faith ignored the noise. Later, if there was time, she'd bother policing her brass. Right now, it wasn't important.

Sam finished loading first. "I'll cover the yard. You two check the house."

His brother looked up from the pump-action gun as he shoved in a final shell. "Watch yourself," he warned in a low voice.

"Right. You guys, too," Sam added. And then he was gone, moving speedily down the nearest line of rusted out car hulks.

Finished, Dean knocked the two boxes of rounds back into the trunk and slammed the lid closed. "Let's go." He hurried up the back steps and shouldered the door open, his shotgun held at chest level, Faith right on his heels. "Bobby? Bobby?"

They swept through the downstairs in less than five minutes. Faith could read the stress in the lines of Dean's shoulders, hear the increasing fear in his voice as every shout of Bobby's name went unanswered. When they had canvassed the kitchen, the living room, and the main bathroom, he hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, weighing his options.

"I'll go up," Dean said after five seconds' quick thought. "You search the basement – last door on the right. You don't find anything, meet me outside in ten minutes. We'll go find Sam."

"Got it. Try not to piss off anymore spirits."

One foot on the steps, he chuckled, and Faith only just caught the lines of panic weaving, spider-like, through the sound. "You, too."

The hunter ascended the steps quickly and silently. "Bobby?" he hissed, sotto voce. "Bobby?"

Faith didn't wait for him to reach the top before she headed for the door that he had indicated. It figured that it was her turn to check the basement. Somehow or another, it seemed like it was always Faith's turn to check the basement.

She eased the warped wooden door open to reveal a heavy, black steel staircase. Well, it looked sturdy enough, and if Bobby was as competent as Dean cracked him up to be, she figured she could trust her weight to it. "Bobby?" she asked of the darkened stairway, her voice barely above a whisper. "Bobby?"

At the bottom of the stairs, Faith felt against the wall to her right until she located a light switch. The feeble yellow light of a single bulb dangling from the puckered ceiling wasn't much, but it was enough to see by. Revolver in one hand, tire iron in the other, she explored the basement, stalking through dusty shelves and abandoned pieces of broken equipment. "Bobby?" she called softly. "Bobby?"

Her voice echoed off the metal shelves and came bouncing back to her, distorted and sinister. It wasn't anything like Dean's, desperate and full of urgency. There was something predatory in the echo, predatory and hungry. For a moment, Faith wondered if that was how her voice actually sounded – it might explain a little bit why everyone was so eager to mistrust her.

A piece of glass fell from one of the shelves behind her and crashed to the floor. The Slayer turned, raising the barrel of the Smith & Wesson, one finger already half-pressed against the trigger. She stared at her new company, slack-jawed with incomprehension.

"Hello, Faith."

Everything slotted into place, and strength poured out of Faith's muscles. She leaned on the wall beside her, incapable of movement beyond keeping her gun barrel pointed at the heart of the apparition. "Giles."

The ghost surveyed the basement, somehow managing to convey his customary aura of refined distaste. "We always seem to meet under such auspicious circumstances." The dry sarcasm was typical Giles, and it was completely and utterly wrong here.

Seeing him like this – all tidy tweed, neatly polished glasses, perfectly combed hair, minus about thirty percent of the lines around his eyes and mouth – it reminded Faith of when she had first come to Sunnydale. Her belly burned where Buffy had stabbed her all those years ago. The Slayer drew the hand with the tire iron up, up, until her arm was wrapped across her abdomen, her tightened fist resting over the scar near her right hip.

"Not exactly how I fancied our next meeting going, either, G-man," she said, proud when her voice remained steady.

"Yes…" The distaste carried on all the way into disappointment. "I've been following your efforts. I must say, Faith, I was surprised at you. I had thought you knew better. Haven't you all learned the hard way that resurrection is not all the Bible rhapsodizes it to be?"

He continued without waiting for a response, lifting a glass jar full of some canned substance and letting it plummet to the concrete floor where it shattered. "But then, I watched a little more, and I realized that not only were you devoid of common sense, but you were also working with Angelus and that old schemer Richard Wilkins."

Another jar fell from his spectral fingers. Faith flinched in spite of herself. Somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, a voice was screaming at her to move, to just fire the damn gun, to run up those stairs and never look back. But Faith had never been very good at listening to that voice, and it had been so damn long since she saw Giles look this young, this unwearied. She was transfixed.

"Curious. Like the sow to her mire, like the dog to its vomit, you always go back to them. And yet, for all your enlistment of allies, you continue to fail, Faith. Ever wonder why that is?"

She shrugged, still waiting for the burning in her gut to subside. "I've got rotten luck?" she proffered as her index finger squeezed the trigger just enough to cock the double-action pistol.

"And worse timing." The ghostly Watcher advanced on her, sweeping his arm along another shelf and sending all of its contents to explode on the ground in fragments of sharp-edged glass and diced tomatoes.

Faith reacted automatically. Her left arm came up, covering her eyes to protect them from the flying shards. She held onto the tire iron as bits of the jar pierced her forearm and left a series of aching, bleeding lacerations in their wake. "That wasn't very nice," she gasped. The wounded arm dropped to her side.

Giles raised a single eyebrow, another gesture that hurt with its familiarity. He'd always been eloquent with nonverbal expressions, and Faith had even kind of missed them. But not like this. Never like this. "It wasn't very nice when you allowed Angel to snap my neck," he pointed out in the same tone that he had used a thousand times before to correct her British accent or to reprove Buffy for showing up late to a training session.

"I tried – I didn't – I couldn't get there in time."

"No, not in time to save me. Just in time to watch me die. That must have thrilled you, you little psychopath."

Blood surged back into her deadened fingers. "I am not a psychopath."

He laughed, reaching out towards her. For the first time, Faith noticed a reddened tattoo on the back of his hand, something like a wheel. It looked as though it had been branded on. "My dear girl. We both know far better than that."

The Slayer could not stand another second of this. Finally breaking free of her paralysis, she tightened her index finger against the trigger a final time. The revolver bucked in her hand, and an iron bullet hurtled through the air. It passed straight through Giles' forehead and lodged solidly in the wall on the other side of the basement. Giles flickered and vanished.

Without stopping to catch her breath, Faith sprinted for the stairs. She hurled herself up them, clutching to the railing and taking them two at a time. Her heart racing, the Slayer slammed the basement door behind her just in time to hear a giant thud that shook the ceiling above.

"Dean!" she bellowed, throat sore, voice hoarse. "Dean!"

She was halfway up the steps to the second story when he appeared at the landing, breathing heavily and guarding his stomach with his free hand, the one not holding his shotgun. The hunter stumbled down the stairs towards her, his eyes flicking over the blood on her forearm. "Bobby's not up there," he gasped as they descended together.

"Not in the basement, either."

"I ran into Meg – you remember her?"

"The demon who kidnapped your father? Yeah, I remember the name. How'd you get loose?"

As they reached the end of the staircase, the hunter started jogging towards the back door. "Crashed a chandelier on her," he said over his shoulder. "You?"

"Giles. Fired an iron round through his skull."

Dean pushed open the door and stepped onto the back porch. "That's awkward," he commented in an undertone.

Faith made an odd noise, somewhere in between a laugh and a sob. "You have no idea."

As they charged down the steps, Sam and a shorter figure came into view, running back towards the house. Dean came to an abrupt halt. "Bobby?" His voice floated out across the clear morning air. "Sam?"

Bobby didn't bother answering until he reached them. "You boys'd gotten here a few minutes later, and I wouldn't'a been, but I'm fine." He was breathing heavily, and the sweat stains at his armpits reached nearly all the way down to his belt. "We all want to keep our hearts on the inside of our ribs, not the outsides, we'd better get to solving this thing. Come on, you three."

The brothers followed him and Faith back into the house, trading glances with upraised eyebrows. You okay? The silent question passed between them and was answered by a short, almost imperceptible nod from first Sam and then Dean.

They rejoined Bobby in the living room to find him already searching through the mammoth mess of material on his desk, shoving the piles of angel research aside. The he rose and crouched down beside a stack of books in the entryway. While he scanned their spines with an oil-stained finger, Dean stepped out into the hall bathroom and returned with a first-aid kit.

"Sit," he ordered, pointing from Faith to the lumpy old couch with his chin. "What happened out there, Bobby?"

Sinking onto the edge of the decrepit sofa, the Slayer extended her left arm. The cuts were scattered haphazardly across both sides of her forearm. Most of them were shallow, but a couple had sliced through a half inch or more of muscle. As Bobby explained curtly about the twin girls who had trapped him in one of his wrecked cars, Faith gritted her teeth and allowed Dean to rinse her arm off with hydrogen peroxide.

"So. These girls, Henricksen, Meg," Sam listed the ghosts one by one, counting them off on his fingers.

"Plus the ones Faith ran into," added Dean. He slathered antibiotic ointment over the two deepest cuts and then popped a few butterfly bandages on top of them. "They're all people we know."

Sam started pacing the room. "And they're all attacking the people that they know."

"Mmm." Dean finished putting regular band-aids over the rest of Faith's lacerations. "You should cover that up. Where's your jacket?"

"In the car."

"Sam, go grab her something from upstairs –"

Faith got to her feet, flexing the fingers of her left hand. "I can go outside. I'll be fine."

"Here." Dean handed her his car keys. "Take that tire iron with you. Run like hell. You got sixty seconds."

The Slayer took off, and as she pushed through the screen door, she heard him ask his brother, "You remember Meg having a tattoo?"

Tire iron gripped tightly in one hand, Faith skittered across the wooden planks of the porch. She thundered down the stairs and across the gravel drive, jerking to a halt as the open palm of her free hand collided with the metal door of the Impala. Blood pounded in her ears.

Finally, she got the key into the lock and was scrambling across the front seat. The Slayer reached over the seat back with her injured arm, her fingers closing on the smooth material of her leather jacket. Then she was out of the car, locking the door again. Faith clamped the jacket under her armpit, shoved the keys into her front pocket, and ran back into the house.

Sam stood bent over Bobby's cluttered desk, sketching some kind of sigil while the other hunters peered over his shoulder. "There." He dropped his pen onto the desk. "That's what I saw on Henricksen. That the same thing Meg and the twins had?"

"Yeah," they answered in concert.

At the sound of Faith's footsteps, Dean snatched up the drawing and brandished it in her direction. "You see this on any of your people?"

Faith traded his keys for the drawing. Examining it more closely, she saw that the outline of a cross inside of a diamond, both of which were circumscribed by a circle. It looked strangely familiar. "Giles had it. On the back of his hand. I . . . I don't know about Marianne. I wasn't looking."

Bobby started gathering a large pile of books into his arms. "Boys and girl, we've got a problem."

"What, you know this thing?" Dean demanded.

The older man lifted one shoulder noncommittally. "I think I've seen that somewhere before. And if I'm right, we're all in trouble. Follow me."


	60. 60

**A/N:**  And now we're finally caught up to where this fic is on the Pit of Voles, so updates will decrease somewhat in frequency.  Song lyric credits to Bob Seger. Heavy spoilers for SPN 4x02, "Are You There, God? It's Me, Dean Winchester."

* * *

Back down into the basement they charged, hot on Bobby's heels. At the top of the staircase, Faith paused. Intellectually speaking, she knew that the odds were highly against Giles waiting for her at the bottom. And yet . . .

She froze, the toes of one Doc Marten dangling over the edge of the first step. A firm hand closed over her shoulder. Dean, bringing up the rear. "Let's go."

Right. Time to stop being so squeamish. The Slayer gritted her teeth and plunged downwards after Sam.

Bobby led them through the half-empty shelves, around the shattered glass from Giles' earlier attack, along the back wall to a heavy iron door that looked like it belonged in some sort of ancient bank vault. He spun the large crank on the front of the door until it creaked open on groaning hinges. Then he shooed everyone inside.

Glancing around the bolted iron walls, Faith took in the heavy work benches, the half-full armory closet, the lone bunk built across the way, the devil's trap on the ceiling, and the faded vintage poster of Bo Derek. "Nice digs," she muttered at the same time as Sam's surprised, "Bobby, you built all this?"

The older hunter shrugged casually as he locked and chained the panic room closed. "I had a free weekend."

Dean stood in the middle of the room, and he surveyed the supplies with an air of surprise and wonder. "Bobby, you're awesome."

"Uh huh." Bobby dropped his load of books onto one of the benches. "They can't get in here – these walls are iron, six inches thick, with salt in 'em. But they're still gonna be out there when we leave, so we'd better get to work." He jerked his chin toward Faith. "Come help me with this."

Nearly an hour passed while Bobby and the Slayer bent over the wrought-iron tables, pouring through dusty research volumes while the two brothers set to work filling empty shotgun shells with rock salt. Faith ignored the twinge in her arm and the complaints of her spine as she crooked her neck to get on a better level with the pages. But she couldn't quite ignore the whispers in her mind.

 _Idiot. Failure. Psychopath._  Giles' voice reverberated in her skull, his words striking a chord somewhere between taunt and torment. Faith ought to have banished it from her thoughts, but she couldn't. Not when she had gone so many months without hearing him. It must have made her some kind of sick and twisted, but Faith didn't really care. She was already so far past sick and twisted. This . . . just added another string of crazy to the screwball of messed up yarn that was her life.

"He's not completely right, you know," said another British voice.

Faith didn't even bother looking around this time. The words smeared together slightly on the page before her, but she managed to keep her hands from shaking. She was safe, safe in Robert Singer's ghost-proof panic room. It wasn't real, just Wes. And after all, she heard  _his_  voice all the time.

 _Hey_ , she thought, as always the words flavored with a tinge of remorse and regret.  _Wondered when you'd join the party._

"I wonder at your haste to agree with him," observed Wesley Wyndam-Pryce from his characteristic location between her ears. "Are you looking for another opportunity to dog-pile on yourself?"

The Slayer neglected words this time. She turned the page, thinking back a low-pitched whine. Wesley's dry chuckle filled her head, and she managed to get through the next two chapters before he spoke again.

"You can't be afraid, Faith."

"Hmm?" This time, startled, the woman responded out loud. She looked around the room, mildly horrified. But no one had noticed. Bobby was buried in a torn copy of  _Revelation_ , his nose inches from the page, frowning in concentration. Dean and Sam were preoccupied with their ammo assembly line and their heated discussion about the existence of God. No one was paying attention to her.

 _What do you mean?_  she demanded, turning back to her reading.

"Immobility will be your downfall. Giles knows this. You must keep moving."

_But what if they're right? You said that –_

"It doesn't matter."

_But –_

"They're trying to kill you, Faith."

_But Giles –_

"Trying to  _kill_  you. Don't give him any advantage."

_Wes . . . Wes?_

The voice vanished, leaving the insides of her mind as empty, desolate, and lonely as they had ever been. With a sigh, Faith shook her head to clear it. It figured. She had been hearing Wesley more and more these days. Couldn't really put a finger on when in started. Used to be, every month or two, his voice would show up, dispensing advice or criticism. The ghost Watcher she had never asked for, never wanted. Didn't help to know that it wasn't actually Wes, just some product of her exhausted imagination.

In the last few weeks, ever since Quor'toth, with her thirty-six hour days and frequent insomnia, Wesley'd become an almost constant companion. Until she'd hopped a plane to come back to the States.

"Here it is." Bobby's brusque tone cut through the haze in her mind. "You boys get over here."

"What is it?" asked Sam.

"The Mark of the Witnesses."

"Witnesses? Witnesses to what? And where'd you find them?"

"The unabridged version of a little-known text called  _The Book of Revelations,_ " snapped Bobby in response to Dean's question, a bit surly. "It's one of the signs of the Apocalypse."

"Apocalypse?" Faith blinked and stared more curiously at the book in Bobby's hands. Now that was a word she knew how to deal with.

Dean glanced from her to Bobby and back again. "What, like the fake-out Slayer kind? Or we talking four horsemen, hoard your food, gas four dollars a gallon?"

"The second one," said Bobby, snapping the book shut. "Good news, there's a spell in here on how to send these Witnesses back to rest, and I've got all the ingredients in the house."

"And the bad news?" prompted Sam tentatively.

The older man grinned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "It's all upstairs."

"Awesome," muttered Dean under his breath. Louder, he said, "You're sure these things won't just . . . go back to sleep if we wait down here long enough?"

Bobby gave him a look that was less than amused. "They call it the Raising of the Witnesses, Dean. Not the 'read 'em a bedtime story and they'll go back to sleep' of the Witnesses. Only one way to unraise these sons of bitches."

"Okay." Dean lifted his shotgun off the far work table and reached for a large can of rock salt with his free hand. "Where do we start?"

* * *

Armed nearly to the teeth, with Bobby's extended copy of Revelation tucked carefully inside his vest, the four swarmed near the vault door to the panic room. Somehow, Faith ended up at the rear. As the heavy door slowly creaked open, she couldn't see a damn thing over the mammoth shoulders of the two Winchesters in front of her. That didn't help at all with the nerves pooling, corrosive and acidic, in her stomach. She didn't like ghosts, didn't like the way they disappeared and reappeared. Faith preferred to fight things that she could slam a fist into.

Worse, from the dead hunters they'd come across last night, apparently the intangible thing was completely up to the ghosts. So they could touch her, but she couldn't touch them. Not exactly the sort of power differential that Faith liked dealing with.

"Here goes nothin'." Bobby pushed the door the final few degrees, and it thudded against the basement wall. Dean was the first one out of the safe-room, Sam a half-step behind him. Shotguns held at waist level, they half-ran, half-walked through the bookshelves.

At the bottom of the staircase, Dean jerked to a halt. Halfway up the stairs crouched a short, overweight man with tangled dark-brown hair that reached his shoulders. There was a dark, mad light in in his eyes, and he rose from his step at their approach.

"Hey, Dean. Remember me?"

"Ronald, huh?" acknowledged Dean in a strangled voice. "Wish I could say it's good to see you."

The ghost came another step closer and pointed an accusatory finger. "You were supposed to help me – and you're the reason I'm dead."

Before Ronald – or whoever he was – could get any closer, Bobby fired a salt round through the center of his chest. He glared at the back of Dean's head. "You're gonna shoot, you'd better shoot," he warned. "Don't stand around talking. Now, come on. We gotta get moving."

The living room was deserted; no ghosts lay in wait for them. Still, they all knew it was only a short time until their company found them again. Dean started laying down a circle of rock salt three inches thick around the desk while Faith kindled a fire in the fire place. Bobby shoved everything off his desk with one sweep of his arms. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a large copper bowl and a heavy piece of chalk.

The older man turned to Sam. "Upstairs linen closet. There's a red hex box. It'll be heavy. Bring it down."

"Got it," Sam nodded. With one last anxious glance towards his brother and the salt circle, he took off. They could hear his footsteps pound up the creaky stairs.

Just as Dean finished and set the half-empty bag of rock salt beside the desk, two brunette girls, about nine years old, dressed in faded blue party dresses, appeared beside the couch. In the dim study, their pale skin gleamed sinisterly, and their eyes burned with reproach.

"Bobby," they said in unison.

Dean fired twice, and the ghost girls vanished.

"Kitchen, Dean," said Bobby. He began to draw a chalk circle on top of the desk, squinting at the copy of Revelation as he copied the finer details. "Cutlery drawer's got a false bottom. Get me hemlock, opium, wormwood."

" _Opium_?" wondered Faith aloud, unable to stop herself. Satisfied with the fire, she straightened up. Dean had already disappeared into the kitchen.

Occupied with his drawing, Bobby shrugged. "You never know what you're gonna need . . . oh, sh-t."

The twin girls had reappeared, much closer to the salt circle this time.

"Bobby," hissed the one on the left. "You could have saved us."

Her sister joined in. "You walked right by us while that monster ate us all up."

Faith reached over the older hunter's shoulder and grabbed his shotgun. She shot a round into each of the ghosts, sending them back to wherever they came from for a minute or two. "I hate ghosts," she growled to cover up her own unease. There was something distinctly uncomfortable about firing at things that looked like children.

"Shooting kids now? Should've known you were a murderer as well as a slut."

"Marianne." The Slayer turned to her right to see the teenager, again dressed all in black, the turquoise streak in her hair tucked behind one ear. Like the other ghosts, she seemed to be becoming more and more deranged. Faith cocked the shotgun. "Go to Hell."

Once the echo of the shot died away, Bobby looked away from his drawing long enough to give her an appraising glance. "You always gotta say somethin'? You ain't gonna talk 'em to death. Just shoot."

Before Faith could think of a properly witty response, the doors to the kitchen slammed closed, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet house.

"Dean?" hollered Bobby, a hint of fear creeping into his voice.

"Keep working!" came back the response. "I'm all right."

A suspicious eye on the doors, Faith paced around, careful to stay just inside the salt circle. She started counting the seconds.  _Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen . . . . thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two . . . . forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven._  Around the time she reached seventy, she started hearing muffled voices coming from the other side of the kitchen doors.

"Dean?" she called out, her palms sweaty against the stock of her shotgun.

When there was no answer, she stepped out of the circle and slowly walked across the room.

"Dean?" Faith repeated. Still no answer. She tried one of the doors, but it was immobile, held in place by some supernatural force. Dammit. More ghosts.

"What the hell you doing?" demanded Bobby from the desk.

The Slayer's eyes flicked from left to right, assessing the door hinges. She took a couple of steps backwards until she had created a good ten feet of space between her and the kitchen doors. "Sorry about this," she muttered in an undertone. Then Faith launched herself at one of the closed doors, ramming it with her right shoulder at full-speed.

While the ghost might have been able to close and lock doors, it had no power to prevent one of them from being shattered by a collision with a Slayer. Faith hit the door at a sprint, and it exploded into a shower of stake-sized splinters.

Despite the growing numbness in her right arm, the Slayer was back on her feet and had brought her shotgun up even as she encountered a sight that made the acid pool in her stomach start bubbling up like Vesuvius. Some tall black guy in a torn suit had Dean pinioned against the kitchen sink, and his arm was sunk halfway up to the elbow in the hunter's chest.

"Tell me, again, Dean," snarled the ghost. "I die, you live. How's that fair?"

Faith squeezed her aching fingers against the trigger, and the ghost exploded just as the door had moments previous. Before he finished dissipating completely, she was sprinting across the kitchen linoleum. Her boots slid when she tried to stop on a dime. She dropped to one knee beside Dean, who had slumped to the floor, his head back against the cabinets, his eyes closed, breathing heavily.

"You okay?" she asked, half-afraid of the answer.

The hunter opened one eye. "No."

"Was that Henricksen?"

"Yeah."

"At least you can talk. Let's go." Faith slipped an arm beneath his shoulders and lifted him up to his feet. "Where're those ingredients?"

Dean nodded to a half-empty drawer, and the Slayer ran her fingers over various labelled glass bottles until she had collected the three that Bobby wanted. Then they retrieved Dean's shotgun from where the ghost had thrown it across the kitchen and stumbled back through the broken doorframe into the study.

In their absence, Sam had returned from upstairs, and Bobby already had the large red wooden hex box open on his desk. He started adding bits of herb and blood and bone to the copper bowl, mumbling an incantation over them. Faith dropped the hemlock, opium, and wormwood into the top of the hex box and picked up her tire iron while Sam and Dean reloaded the shotguns.

"What happened to the door?" asked Sam worriedly.

"Slayer," answered his brother. "She got a little bored, decided to Hulk out."

Another day, and Faith would have flipped him off for that. But not just now. "Dean, we got company."

It was Ronald, and he looked even more mad than he had on the staircase, his already messy hair tousled further. The hunter worked faster to finish reloading his shotgun. To stall for time, he said, "Ronald, come on, man. I thought we were buddies."

The ghost leapt onto the couch. "That was before . . . now I'm gonna eat you alive."

"You think I look like a cheeseburger? Wait . . . don't answer that." His shotgun finally ready, Dean pointed it at Ronald only for the ghost to vanish before he could shoot.

Bobby dropped the last of the wormwood into the copper bowl and began speaking louder in Latin over the ingredients. Faith couldn't pick any of it out. The large bay windows to the left of the desk blew open so forcefully that they crashed against the walls and their glass panels shattered.

"Oh, crap," breathed Dean. The torrents of wind streaming through the broken windows hissed across the room and brushed against the salt circle on the carpet, eroding it away centimeter by centimeter. As the last fragments of their protection were blown away, the study filled with ghosts.

A blonde with long hair approached Sam.  _Must be Meg,_  Faith conjectured as the younger Winchester shot her and she vanished. Ronald, the self-professed cannibal, appeared on the arm of the couch. Faith cocked her shotgun and sent him packing. The apparitions reappeared seconds later, this time accompanied by others – the twin girls, the black guy who'd gotten a little too friendly with Dean's insides, Marianne, and Giles. Frak.

The Slayer lost track of time. The next few minutes were filled with gunfire. Shoot. Get out of Sam's line of sight. Shoot. See someone creeping up on Bobby. Shoot. It was like playing haunted Whack-a-Mole. Unfortunately, Whack-a-Ghost was played with shotguns instead of hammers. Eventually, the ammo ran out.

Dean was nearly finished reloading his gun for the second time when Henricksen got too close again. He grabbed the shotgun and sent it skittering across the carpet to the other side of the room. Dean ducked the ghost's outstretched arm and reached for another gun. His fingers closed on the stock, and he pulled the weapon to his chest.

He fired, but nothing happened. Dammit. Empty. Faith's tire iron lay abandoned on the carpet six inches away. The hunter picked it up and swung the iron through Henricksen's torso. He disappeared. Good. One less ghost, for the moment.

Meg, the blonde, reappeared, and she sent Sam flying against the wall with a flick of her hand, moving an ancient wooden chest of drawers to pin him there.

"Sam!" shouted Dean as his brother pushed back against the dresser, his face scrunched with effort and pain.

"Cover Bobby!"

Faith shot at the blonde and missed. Something icy and cold had knocked her elbow. She lashed out with a fist, but her hand passed through nothing but cold air.

"Not so fast," snarled a too-familiar accent. The Slayer was whirled around and thrown onto the floor by something she couldn't touch. She landed face-down on the carpet. The icy hands gripped her shoulders painfully tight and flipped her over onto her back.

"I want to see your eyes," said Giles, grinning in unholy delight. The ghost lowered itself until it was sitting on her stomach. It was so cold that Faith couldn't breathe. And then, still smiling that horrible smile, Giles reached straight into her chest. His incorporeal hand passed through jacket and tank top, through skin and fat, through muscle and ribs to close around her heart.

The Slayer gasped for air. She fumbled for the revolver at her hip, but Giles squeezed his hand around her heart, and she choked. This . . . this was agony. Worse than anything she had ever experienced, and that was saying something. It wasn't something she could distance herself from. It was too close, right between her lungs.

"Help," she whispered, the words inaudible over the wind still whipping through the open window casing. "Help."

People were yelling somewhere in the room around her, but none of it made any sense. Her world had narrowed down to the excruciating torture in her chest and the ghost perched on her stomach, seemingly getting off on her death. Faith could come up with half a dozen taunts, but she couldn't say any of them. It took too much effort to breathe, let alone to talk.

Suddenly the room filled with bright blue light from the fire. Giles fragmented and vanished. The Slayer rolled onto her stomach and pushed herself up onto her knees and elbows. She stared unseeingly at the carpet and just focused on getting air into her lungs. In and out, in and out. Her chest still ached.

"Bobby? Faith?"

There came a thud as Sam shoved the chest of drawers away from him, and then his voice joined his brother's. "Faith, Bobby? You guys okay?"

Faith shook her head. Her knees were trembling. No way in hell was she going to be able to stand. A pair of dark work boots stepped into her field of vision, and their owner raised her up by her armpits.

"It gets better in a few seconds," said Dean as he steadied her.

Lifting her eyes, the Slayer took in the utter chaos and destruction of the study. Bobby leaned against the desk; he was breathing almost as heavily as she was. Sam looked a little shaken up, but a quick visual inspection didn't show any obvious injuries. Faith glanced at the shattered windows, the books and papers strewing the floor, and rubbed at her sternum. "I frakking hate ghosts."

Bobby laughed humorlessly. "Join the club." He turned his head from left to right, frowning at the mess the ghosts had made of his study. "All right, you lot. This isn't gonna fix itself. Time to get to work."

* * *

**September 23rd, 2008, Singer Auto Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 9:00 p.m.**

In the end, it took nearly three hours before Bobby was satisfied with the clean-up efforts. Sam and Dean boarded up the study windows with plywood while the older hunter attempted to sort his books again and Faith cleared up the remnants of the broken door. After the study was in something of a working order, Dean ventured down to the basement to mop up the spilled tomatoes and set the shelves upright again. Faith helped Sam re-hang the iron chandelier in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

When at last they were finished, the brothers played rock, paper, scissors for first access to the downstairs shower. Best two out of three turned into best three out of five, which became best four out of seven, until finally Bobby ran out of patience and told one of them to just use the upstairs shower in his bathroom. The gobsmacked looks on their faces at this announcement was almost worth the arguments about hand gestures that had preceeded it.

While Sam and Dean washed up, Faith retreated out to the front porch and made a couple of international phone calls, checking back in with Angel and Spike. Last of all, she gave her Cleveland Slayerettes a ring. Lily didn't pick up, so she tried Becka.

The younger Slayer answered on the third ring. "Faith?" she said, her grin audible. "How are you? How's London?"

Faith scratched at the back of her neck awkwardly. "Funny thing, Becks. I'm not actually in London right now."

"Yeah?"

"I'm . . . ." She inhaled deeply. "I'm back in the States. Dean's back."

"What? That's . . . How?"

"Supposedly, he was touched by an angel."

Picking up on something in her mentor's voice, Becka pressed, "You sound kinda skeptical."

"Yeah, well . . . wouldn't you be?"

"Good point. How long are you gonna be stateside?"

"Not sure."

"You planning on swinging up this way? 'Cuz there are a couple of new girls crashing at your place right now, but Lily and I can move them in with someone else."

The Slayer changed the subject. "How is Lily? She didn't pick up her phone."

"She's got rehearsals for her play tonight – they're doing an updated version of Much Ado About Nothing, and she's playing Beatrice."

"Good for her." Faith pulled the phone away from her ear and glanced at the time. "Hey, I've gotta dash. I'll call you if I plan on heading that way, okay?"

"Got it. Take care, Faith."

"Yeah. You, too."

* * *

Sam was waiting for her in the kitchen, his face obscured by a water glass. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he drank. "Shower's open. Dean and Bobby just stepped out on a food run. You want anything specific, Dean said for you to call him."

The Slayer digested this. "Dean and Bobby? Not you?"

"Nah." Smiling a little shamefacedly, the hunter refilled his glass. "Last time I went, I forgot the pie."

"So . . . you're in the doghouse?"

Sam threw back his head and howled. "Ahh-wooo!" He sobered. "No grub runs for me."

Helpless, she chuckled. "Calm down, Fido. You mind pointing me toward the shower again?"

Once she finished cleaning up and put new bandages on the cuts on her arm, Faith stepped back into the living room to find Sam carefully rearranging the furniture. He had moved the couch away from the wall an tugged an old La-Z-Boy rocker to stand beside it.

The hunter looked up at her footsteps. "Oh, good. I need your help with something." He adjusted the recliner a final few inches and dusted his hands off on his jeans. "Come on."

"What are we doing?" Faith followed him upstairs and down the hall into a messy bedroom. "Is this . . . Bobby's?"

"Come on," repeated Sam as he stepped around the clothes and books on the floor to where a giant old television with rabbit ears sat on top of a paint-chipped dresser. "We gotta move Big Bertha." He started unhooking cords from the wall.

"Why?" The Slayer took her place on the other side of the ancient TV.

"Because," Sam lifted his end off the dresser, "it's movie night."

* * *

An hour later, and Faith found herself wedged between two gargantuan Winchesters, her stomach full of meat lover's pizza and diet Coke. Both Sam and Dean seemed to run about five degrees warmer than usual people, and although she hadn't seen this particular installment of Die Hard before, she couldn't stop herself from drifting off. It had been an incredibly long, strange forty-eight hours, and not even the lumpiness of the old sofa could keep her awake. Right as she was about to pass out, her phone rang.

Hating whoever was on the other end of the line, she wormed her way free from the couch and headed out into the hall to answer the phone. It was Spike. Something had happened with Eyghon. Angel was badly hurt, and she was needed, stat.

The vampire was already online, checking flights. "I'd send the ship for you, but I'm not sure it'd get there soon enough. Can you . . . can you be on the next plane outta wherever it is you are?"

"Yeah." Faith closed her eyes and exhaled into the phone. "No rest for the wicked, huh?"

"Sorry, pet."

"Me, too." Another pause, and then she finished, "I'll be there soon as I can," and hung up.

For a long moment, the Slayer hesitated in the hall, and then she walked back into the doorway. She watched Bruce Willis for thirty seconds and turned to the men on the couch. "Hey," she started.

Dean took one look at her face and pushed himself up off the sofa. "You gotta go?" he guessed.

"Yeah." Faith picked up her duffel and backpack from their places at the end of the couch. Slinging them up onto her shoulders, she shoved her hands in her pockets. "It's that time."

He was already reaching for his jacket and keys. "I'll drive you into town."

Neither of them said another word until they were ten minutes out from the Sioux Falls airport. Faith didn't really know what exactly she ought to say. It seemed like this was always happening – as soon as they'd wrapped up a case or gotten past the almost-dying part, someone's phone had the audacity to ring, and it was Happy Trails again.

"Sorry about all this," she apologized at length when the quiet became uncomfortable, turning Bob Seger down to talk over the radio.

Dean shrugged. "It's fine. Guess it's just the status quo, huh?"

"I guess." The Slayer turned the music back up, only for Dean to turn it down again. He took one sidelong glance at her from out of the corner of his eye. She was sitting against the shotgun door, and nearly four feet of empty bench seat gaped between them.

"When you finish up your thing in London . . . when you get all of that worked out . . . let's work a case. You and me. No ghosts, no angels . . . let's just go find some job – werewolves, ghouls, vampires – your kind or mine, doesn't matter."

"I'd like that," Faith replied quietly.

"Yeah." Embarrassed by his outburst, Dean twisted the dial on the stereo around and let Bob Seger drown out the silence for the rest of the drive.

. . . .

_On a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha_

_You can listen to the engine moanin' out its one note song_

_You can think about the woman, or the girl you knew the night before_

_. . . ._

_But your thoughts will soon be wandering, the way they always do_

_When you're riding sixteen hours and there's nothing there to do_

_And you don't feel much like riding, you just wish the trip was through_

_. . . ._

_Here I am, on the road again_

_There I am, on the stage, yeah_

_Here I go, playing star again_

_There I go, turn the page._


	61. Chapter 61

**November 1st, 2008, Texarkana, Arkansas, 7:00 p.m.**

"You need to be more careful, Sam." Dean waited until they were two hours out from Wichita before bringing up what was on his mind.

Sam jerked his head around so fast it was a wonder he didn't give himself whiplash. He stared across the darkened Impala at his older brother. "What're you talking about?" he demanded, his frown both visible and audible.

"That whole exorcising thing – whatever it is you're doing with Ruby."

"I'm saving lives, Dean! That's what we're supposed to do, remember? Saving demon hosts instead of ganking them with the knife."

The older hunter's hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he looked fixedly down the highway stretching out in from of them. "Sam." His voice dropped into a low half-warning, half-plea. "You know I don't agree with what you're doing. It's dangerous and nothing good can ever come of working that closely with a demon. I know you're not going to listen to me, but Cass and Uriel, the douchebags upstairs know what you're doing. Please, please be careful."

"I can take care of myself, Dean."

"No, you can't. We don't know enough about these angels – not a single thing about what hurts 'em. We can't give them so much as a nasty paper cut, let alone kill them. These angels decide to get proactive about you and Ruby, and there may not be a damn thing I can do to stop them. I can't protect you. So, please, just watch your step a little more, okay?"

Sam's frown twisted into an even more ill-tempered expression. He sat for the longest time without replying, gazing furiously out the side window.

Cautious and concerned, Dean glanced at him warily for a brief second, and then his gaze shifted back to the road. "Sam?" he prompted after the tension in the car rose past comfortable levels.

But his brother refused to look at him. "I got a text from Faith," he said after a minute, his voice hard and still incredibly pissed-off. "She said you hadn't been answering the phone for over a week and wondered if we were okay. You two having a fight or something?"

"Crap." Dean fumbled in the pocket of his leather jacket for his phone. "I forgot. I was gonna call her back, and then all this Samhain witch angel crap happened . . ."

Zeroing in on the last part of that sentence, Sam decided to relent a fraction. "Angel crap? Faith said she called you earlier today. We'd cleared up the Samhain business by then. Unless . . ."

"What?" His brother dropped his cell phone into his lap, his attention caught by the hard thinking plain in Sam's voice as the younger Winchester did some of that weird mental math that he always used when he tried to work some amateur psychoanalysis mumbo jumbo.

"You don't want Faith around the angels."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"No, wait, dude. That whole protection thing you were going on about. It's not just me, is it?"

"Sam, what?"

"That's what's got you so freaked. You can't protect any of us – her, me, or you. Why are you so worried? Aren't the angels supposed to be on our side? They're supposed to be good. Me, I guess I get why you're trying to keep me out of it. But why are you avoiding Faith?"

"Leave it, Sam."

As ever, Sam refused to listen. This was a far more interesting line of questioning than listening to another lecture. Besides, it was Dean's turn to be in the hot seat.

"What's going on with you two, anyways?"

"Sam –"

"No, Dean. I don't ask you about it, and Bobby doesn't ask you about it, but she got here three days after you came back – and then you two are attached at the hip until she took off back for the U.K. I like Faith, but sometimes I gotta wonder. What exactly are you two doing?"

"Drop it, Sam," growled his older brother for a second time, fighting the urge to tamp down on the brakes. If Sam wouldn't shut up on his own, maybe a love tap on the neck from his seat belt might do the trick. "Just drop it."

Dean reached for the radio dial and changed out the cassette tapes. Metallica's 'Master of Puppets' blared through the speakers while the hunter picked his cell phone up off the upholstery and dialed out.

"Hey." Faith's voice was nearly drowned out by the sound of loud, thumping techno dance music. "Guess Sam put a burr under your tail for me, huh?"

"Thanks for that, by the way." He didn't bother feigning gratitude.

"Sorry." She didn't sound it. Not one bit. "It's just, I've got good news, and I've got better news. Which one do you want to hear first?"

"Shoot."

"Good news, Giles is back – although for reasons even Angel still can't explain, he's like twelve. Anyway, he's headed back to San Fran with his aunts to give Buffy an assist."

"Isn't he a little too close to AARP to have aunts?"

"Seriously . . . it threw me for a loop at first. Anyway, point is I'm back in the States now – for a good while, too."

The hunter inhaled and waited a few seconds before replying. "That is good news. What's the better news?"

"I'm headed out to St. Augustine, Florida, gonna meet up with a Slayer called Vi. Something's been taking people and leaving their bodies in warehouses, exsanguinated. Wanna hear the best part?"

"There's a best part to this?" He really ought to have been disturbed by her enthusiasm, but somehow Dean couldn't quite manage it. Faith's excitement was contagious. There was a job. People were dead, but there was a case. Not demons or angels of a g-ddamn Apocalypse. Just a case.

"Fang marks are all screwy. Vi can't quite figure 'em out. You and Sam wanna join, help us track down this new kind of blood sucker?"

"Florida, you said?"

"St. Augustine."

Dean did some quick calculations in his head. "We're in Arkansas, about fourteen hours from there. See you late tomorrow afternoon?"

"You're on. I'll text you Vi's address when I get it. Oh, and Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"If you don't like me texting your brother, you should probably call me back. I've been trying to get a hold of you for the last three weeks."

"Faith – "

She didn't let him finish. "See you tomorrow, then. Bye."

The hunter hung up the phone and tossed it into the cassette box only to find Sam watching him knowingly, laughingly. "What?"

"Dude. Could you _be_ any more whipped?"

That did it. Dean checked that there was no one behind them and slammed his foot down onto the brake pedal, steering his car carefully towards the shoulder. With a spluttering gargle, Sam reached for the seatbelt and clawed it away from his windpipe. Navigating back onto the highway, Dean suppressed a smile.

Payback sure was a bitch.

* * *

**November 2nd, 2008, St. Augustine, Florida, 11:00 a.m.**

"That'll be twenty-five sixty."

Faith glanced up at the cab driver in the rearview mirror. "You take credit?"

The taxi driver frowned at her reflection. "You got cash?"

She shook her head and opened her much abused leather wallet to display its insides, empty save for a single Band-aid. "Nope."

Still frowning, the man reached into the backseat and took her extended credit card. He glared at the piece of faded plastic as though it had personally insulted his mother, but he ran it through anyway. Passing the card and receipt back to her, he said, "Just sign here."

Faith scribbled something on the scrap of paper, her penmanship bad enough to have appalled a kindergarten teacher. It kinda looked a little like the name on the card, if you squinted hard and didn't ask too many questions. "Thanks," she said brusquely, handing the cab driver the receipt. Then she grabbed her nearly threadbare black duffel bag and jumped out of the car.

As soon as the cab door shut, the taxi was off, driving away much faster than the twenty-five miles per hour residential speed limit, leaving Faith standing on the curb, looking skeptically across a yellowed front yard to a squat stucco ranch-style house with a large red "For Sale" sign stuck in the unkempt grass. The Slayer switched her duffel from one hand to the other and chewed on her lip as she surveyed Vi's latest place.

A good five years had passed since the Battle for Sunnyhell, and Violet, like many of the other Slayers there that day, had bounced around from city to city and from house to house, following the older Slayers, the remnants of the Watcher's Council, whatever monsters remained to fight. She'd been in Cleveland for the first six months or so, but then something had come up in Italy, and off she'd gone to join Andrew's squad. Not too long after that, she took charge of the girls in New York, and she'd been operating up North with a group of Wicca during the Twilight kerfluffle.

Faith hadn't heard much from Vi since SunnyD. They ran into each other every couple of years – at Oz's zen hippie werewolf camp in Tibet, in London a few months after Giles' funeral – but they didn't exactly keep in touch.

Still, when Vi had sent word along the grapevine that she needed a hand working a string of disappearances in southern Florida, Faith leapt at the chance. She left Giles and Buffy and the Drama Team in California and hopped the closest red-eye to St. Augustine. Now, the Slayer eyed the house and its straggly yard in mild surprise. Violet always struck her as the manic pixie dream girl kind of person, not the abandoned house kind of person. But hey, what did she know? A lot of things changed in five years.

Readjusting her grip on her suitcase, Faith inhaled deeply. After four days on Buffy's couch, she had been looking forward to getting some space and a chance to breathe. Well, maybe it wouldn't be as claustrophobic on the inside as it looked on the outside.

She tried the doorbell and when that didn't work, rapped forcefully on the aluminum door. Vi opened it almost instantly.

"Oh, good, you're here," she said, nervous and excited in the same breath. "Your bags and everything get in from the airport okay?"

Faith held up her duffel.

Vi looked mildly embarrassed. "Oh, right. Come in, come in." She pulled the door open and gestured for the older woman to step through the doorway.

The interior of the house was better than Faith had feared. The living room furnishings – two couches and an armchair – were faded but clean, as was the carpet and the wallpaper. She glanced down the main hallway into the kitchen with its lumpy linoleum and the three closed bedroom doors. "Nice digs."

"Thanks." Vi rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly. "It used to be my sister's. She and her husband just moved to Tallahassee, and they needed someone to house sit while they're trying to sell the place."

The Slayer raised an eyebrow, wondering how all of that had worked out. Most of the girls who got called didn't really talk to their families anymore. Amy, Becka, and Lily being among the few exceptions. Even Buffy and Dawn were estranged from their father. "Kind of you to step up."

Opening the fridge, the younger woman shrugged. "It works out for all of us. I needed a place to stay while I sort out my life, and they need someone to mow the lawn and deter squatters. You want a Coke or something?"

"I'm good." A manilla folder on the kitchen table caught Faith's attention. The edges of several large color photographs poked out from one of the sides. She flipped the folder open to look over the top picture, a young woman in her early twenties lying on a steel table, her eyelids drawn down over unseeing eyes. Her head was turned to the left, revealing a small, circular wound on the right side of her neck. "These your stiffs?"

"Yeah." Vi popped open a can of Dr. Pepper and sat down at the table. She spread the seven photos out across the pine surface, tucking the matching case report behind each of them.

Faith slid into the chair opposite and scanned the pictures. Three women, four men, all between the ages of fourteen and fifty, at a rough estimate. In all the images, their heads were turned to one side or the other to display freakishly similar wounds. "Bet they think they've got a serial killer," she mumbled under her breath. Then louder, "Okay, Vi. Before I start reading, what do ya got for me?"

"Uh . . ." It took Violet a moment to find her tongue. She was used to leading now, not following someone else. "Same basic story for each of the victims. They vanish, and about forty-eight hours later they turn up somewhere around town, all the blood drained from their bodies. No patterns as far as I can tell. Some people never showed up to work, others never came home from it. First one went missing six months back, the last one was found three days ago. Heard about it on the news while I was unpacking. They mentioned the six unsolved cases, so I got to work."

"Does it alternate between men and women? The people who go missing, I mean?"

"Nope. The first two were women, and then the next three were men. Then another woman. And the guy they found on Saturday was, uh, a guy."

"Bodies found in the same neighborhood? Same area of the city, maybe?"

"Different suburbs every time. Whoever's doing this, they're careful to obscure their hunting ground."

"Huh." Faith leaned forward and picked up the picture of the most recent victim, a red-headed guy in his late thirties. Gnawing on her lip, she peered more closely at the mark on his neck. "And there's just the one?" she asked, a little plaintively.

Vi knew what she meant. "I know, right? It'd be so much more straightforward if it were two. But there's just the one."

"What's the baseline level of vamp activity in this town anyway?"

"Faith . . . unless there's some snaggle-tooth running around, it isn't vampires."

"I know. But they're a good . . . what's the word? Hang on a sec." The Slayer gnawed a bit harder on her bottom lip as she ransacked her brain. "There it is. They can be a pretty good indicator of how much of a monster infestation a town's got." She perked up as a new idea struck. "There any demon bars in St. Augustine?"

The younger woman frowned. "I don't know. I just moved here like a week ago. This was the first odd death I saw. And I haven't ever heard anything about this part of Florida being a locus of supernatural activity."

"Yeah, you're right. It's just always easier when it's vampires."

"The devil you know?"

"Exactly." The Slayer got to her feet, stretching her arms up over her head. "My friends are getting in later tonight, but how about you and I get started without them? You been into the morgue yet?"

"Yesterday. Didn't learn much more than you can see in the pictures."

"Where'd you get all that, anyway?"

For the first time, Vi blushed. "My ex . . . he works in the police department. He just made detective."

"Your ex?" Faith figured she'd reserve her judgement on that one. "What'd you tell him?"

"He knows about the Slayer thing," said Vi, squaring her chin. "We were dating when I took off for Sunnydale the first time."

"Huh. And he still talks to you?"

"Well, sometimes when he gets drunk, he calls me and says that he thinks I'm crazy, but most of the time we get along, yeah."

"TMI, Vi." The older woman gathered up the photos back into their manilla folder. "So . . . shall we go hunt some monsters?"

Vi looked at the clock on the microwave unnecessarily. "Faith, it isn't even noon. They'll all be sleeping."

A grin spread itself out across the Slayer's face, and she pushed her chair beneath the table. "Exactly. So none of them will know we're coming."

"We don't even know if there are monsters," Vi called to the other woman's back as she walked to the front door.

Faith turned, her grin even wider than before. "No time like the present to find out!"

* * *

**November 2nd, 2008, Live Oak, Florida, 3:00 p.m.**

"Hey." Dean tapped on the window glass next to his sleeping brother's head and shook his shoulder roughly. "I'm gonna go inside, grab some snacks. You want anything?"

A bleary-eyed Sam looked up, squinting at the sunlight streaming in over Dean's shoulder. "Ungh," he groaned and flopped an arm over his eyes to block out the sun. "No, I'm good. Unless they've got an apple or something – one without bruises."

"I'll do my best." The hunter reached into the floorboard for a mostly clean towel, which he tossed at his brother's face. "Don't let anybody steal the car."

"Murmph," Sam muttered from behind the towel, raising one hand in a thumbs up.

Chuckling, Dean stepped away from the car and headed into the gas station. After finding his way back to the bathroom and washing his hands, he perused the half-full station shelves. When he was sure that Sam couldn't see him from the car, he lifted his phone to his ear.

"You got a minute?"

"Kinda wandering through an abandoned warehouse right now, but sure, Dean, I got a minute. What's up?"

Dean fingered a bag of potato chips. It was at least a third air, maybe more. Probably not worth the two dollars that they wanted for it. "You pissed at me?" he asked, returning the chips to the shelf.

"Why do you ask?" Faith fired back defensively. Her voice was quiet, and he could hear soft footfalls on concrete echoing off metal walls.

"You just . . . never mind."

"Should I be pissed at you?" she said, more mellow this time.

"Sam's pissed at me." He tucked a bag of pork rinds into the crook of his elbow. These were less expensive, and they had less air in the packaging. "Heath bar or Snickers?"

"Snickers," replied the Slayer automatically. "King-size," she added before he could ask his follow-up question. "Why's Sam pissed at you?"

"I dunno. Same reason he's always pissed at me."

"Huh. Lemme guess . . . you play that Metallica tape of yours for two days straight?"

"Nope."

"You pick the diner and both of you got food poisoning?"

"Not this time."

"You forget to shower or something?"

Dean wandered around the convenience store in search of produce. Surely they had something fresher than a half-rotten banana. "Funny, but no."

"I give up. Why's he pissed at you?" Her voice dropped even further, until it was barely over a whisper.

"What did you say you were doing?" the hunter asked. He finally found the apples, and he started turning them over one at a time, in search of one without any dark spots. No point in yanking Sam's chain any more than he had to.

"Shhhh. Be vewy vewy quiet. I'm hunting wabbits."

"Faith –"

"Don't worry, cowboy. It's deader than a graveyard. I'm just checking some of the more industrial parts of town. Gotta find some kind of monster traces. A squat, or some shredded body parts, some weird-looking slime. There'll be a clue eventually. Carpet fiber, maybe. . . Anyway, there's another Slayer on back-up. She's taking the floor above this one."

Gritting his teeth into a forced neutral expression, Dean selected the least offensive of the Granny Smiths and grabbed a couple of large water bottles out of the glass case against the back wall. "You couldn't wait for us?"

"And spend the afternoon small-talking with Vi? God, no." Hinges creaked on her end of the line. "But you're trying to change the subject. What's got Sam's panties in a twist?"

The hunter exhaled through pursed lips. "Honestly, I don't know. We just finished a thing in Arkansas – ancient demon called Samhain. He broke another one of those craptastic seals. I don't even know what number we're on now. Sam used his psychic boy powers to exorcise Samhain. Cass and an even douchier angel were around, and things . . . got a little tense."

"I thought Sam wasn't doing the Jedi mind-trick thing anymore?" wondered Faith, sounding distracted.

"So he said."

"And he's the one pissed at you? That's . . . kinda backward."

"Tell me about it." Dean set his purchases onto the counter and smiled at the cashier, a tired-looking woman in her late fifties. "This and the gas on pump three."

Unimpressed, the cashier rang up his junk food and Sam's apple. "That'll be thirty-seven forty-nine."

He passed up his credit card, signed the receipt, and headed back outside to the car. "Anyway, I think we're only two hours out. Try not to get yourself into trouble between now and then, okay?"

"Hang on, Dean. I think I just heard something."

There came a rustle as Faith slipped her cell phone down into her pocket, and he could hear her walking on a concrete floor, the footsteps muffled through fabric.

"Come out, come out wherever you are," purred the Slayer, any warmth that had been in her tone previously replaced by ice. "Come say hello."

Dean froze with his fingers curled around the door handle on his Impala. "Faith, get outta there," he warned helplessly, knowing that she probably couldn't hear him. "Leave it, and we'll go back in a few hours."

"Blue?" said Faith, curious and unafraid. "Blue, what the hell are you doing in Florida?" Her boots scuffled quickly across the ground. "Not Blue. Oh, frak. Vi!" she hollered, and then there was a single, ominous thud.

"Faith?" The hunter had his keys in the ignition and was sliding his seat belt into the buckle. "Faith, answer me." He shifted into reverse and slammed his foot down onto the gas pedal, tires squealing as he pulled a reverse 180. "Talk to me, Faith. Faith? Faith?"

* * *

She was warm. That was the first thing that caught her attention. An overwhelming feeling of warmth. She shifted, burrowing deeper into the warmth around her, and realized she was wrapped in something scratchy. That didn't quite make sense.

Faith lay in the darkness and slowly gathered her thoughts. She had been . . . somewhere. She couldn't quite remember now. It all seemed distant and fuzzy. But Dean had been there. Or on his way there. She remembered feeling excited, in that way that was particularly unique to hunting with Dean.

Opening her eyes slowly, the Slayer found herself in an unfamiliar apartment. She was stretched out on an old couch with faded blue upholstery, lying underneath a matching crocheted blue afghan. Well, that explained the scratchy. Wary, Faith pushed herself up off the sofa and wandered through the rest of the apartment, exploring. It had a tiny kitchen and an even tinier bathroom. The single bedroom was almost completely occupied by a queen-sized bed, and there were both men's and women's clothes in the narrow closet. Nearly every wall in the place was adorned with posters of bands – metal, hard rock, thrash, glam – most types of rock were well represented.

Still investigating, Faith rifled through her pockets. Her cell phone was missing, but that wasn't too unusual. If she'd gone home with some guy, chances were she'd left her phone in the car or something. It wouldn't have been the first time, not by a long shot.

The Slayer moved across the small living room to the window and pushed up the blinds. Judging by the distance between the window and the concrete gutter below, she was in a third floor apartment. Faith looked up and down the street. It was eerily familiar. Something about these apartment buildings, those shuttered businesses, that neighborhood bar with its pseudo-Irish front sign and jaunty neon leprechaun. Like she'd seen them before.

She took a step backwards from the windows, letting the blinds drop back into place. Then she flipped her arm over and pinched the inside of her forearm, hard. When nothing changed, Faith swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She lifted the blinds again and pinched her other arm. Again, nothing changed.

"What the hell?" she whispered, leaving the window a second time. Of course this street seemed familiar. She'd worked a couple of jobs here, back in the day. Back in the day when she was working for the Mayor. Back in Sunnydale.

_Sunnydale doesn't even exist anymore,_ Faith reminded herself sharply, with another angry pinch on her arm and a furtive glance out the window. But it did. And here she was.

"What the hell?" the Slayer repeated. "What the _hell_?"


	62. Paradise City, pt 2

A/N: Apologies about the delay! Finals are over, and I've written quite a few chapters - just waiting to get them back from my beta. Anyway, here's an early Christmas present for y'all. Happy Holidays, everyone!

First things first. Faith blinked, closing her eyes tight and scrunching her nose. Toes together, she swung her heels out wide, then clacked them against each other three times. There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home.

When she opened her eyes, nothing had changed. Well, it'd been worth a shot. The Slayer finger-combed her hair back into a ponytail and slid the spare elastic off her wrist and up over the tangled mass. Then she slipped across the room to the cramped entryway and slid the deadbolt. That way, whenever the owner of this apartment got back, she'd have a little more head's up. Turning away from the locked door, Faith grabbed a serrated knife from the kitchen and set to work tossing the place.

She started back in the bedroom closet, pushing all the clothes to one side and feeling up on the top shelf. Nothing really stood out, just half a dozen pairs of women's boots with worn-down heels and a dried-out tube of crimson lipstick. Faith moved everything back to its original position and began rifling through the dresser. Like the closet, the drawers had been divided right down the middle, with the woman's things on the right side and the men's things on the left.

By the time she finished, working from top to bottom, she knew quite a bit about the couple who lived there. The guy wore boxers, not briefs, and he owned more plaid than anyone who wasn't a lumberjack had any right to. The woman's stuff was a little more varied, but that still wasn't saying much.

Faith moved on to the white pasteboard desk jammed up under the window. The top drawer was full of crumpled up receipts and torn bits of notebook paper. She grabbed a couple from the middle of the pile and smoothed them out across the thigh of her jeans. There was one receipt from McDonalds and another from a gas station. Both of them had been paid in cash, and up near the top, where the ink was faded near clear away, both slips of paper had printed, 'Sunnydale, California.' They were both dated in the past six months. August and June 2008.

"Crap," she muttered under her breath, and she shoved the two receipts back into the drawer. Faith unfolded one of the pieces of notebook paper. It was a list of titles – book or song, she couldn't tell. Each one had been struck through with a thin line of red pen. Closing the drawer with her knee, she tried the little wooden cabinet door in the side of the desk. It opened on stiff hinges to reveal a plastic blue accordion folder..

Settling onto the edge of the bed, the Slayer flipped open the top of the folder and began sliding papers in and out of their plastic divisions. Jackpot. Here were utility bills and a copy of the lease to the apartment. She pulled the first electric bill out of its envelope and checked the name of the addressee.

Jack Boynton. Huh. It meant nothing to her. The cable and internet bills were also made out to this Jack, whoever he was. There were two scribbled sets of initials on the lease. Faith turned to the back page, where the names were printed out in full. For a fourth and final time, she read Jack Boynton's name. When she glanced at the signature next to his, the Slayer's heart dropped lower into her stomach. Written on the blank ink line next to Jack Boynton were two uncomfortably familiar words: Faith Lehane.

That . . . that wasn't possible. It couldn't be. But it was.

She stared at her signature on that rental agreement, taking in the slightly loopy F's and h's, and all that they meant. The boots with the worn out soles had to be hers. And maybe the scratchy afghan, too. While she struggled to pull her thoughts together, Faith returned the lease to its section of the file folder and continued examining its contents. There wasn't much else, except the title to a Jeep Rubicon, made out in Jack's name.

The Slayer groaned. Oh, this was just great. She was sharing a bedroom with a guy who drove a Jeep. This Wackytown was getting weirder by the second. Her fingers brushed a thicker piece of paper at the very back of the accordion file, and she tugged it out, her eyebrows skyrocketing up towards her hairline. It was a graduation certificate from U.C. Sunnydale, a B.S. in business management, awarded to Faith Lehane on May 20th, 2004.

"What the . . ." The words trailed off as Faith abandoned the diploma, returning it and the rest of the accordion folder to the desk. She couldn't stop to think about any of this now, not until she finished gathering evidence. The Slayer dropped down to her knees and lifted the bottom of the comforter away from the god-awful blue shag carpet. Apart from the dust bunnies, all she could see was a small black roll-on suitcase. Faith dragged the suitcase out into the middle of the room and unzipped it.

Aha. Instead of old clothes or toiletry bags or whatever it was that normal people kept in their suitcases, the Slayer found what she had been looking for. Four rough-edged stakes, a silver knife, and a Nestle water bottle labeled 'holy' in black Sharpie. Faith abandoned her kitchen knife and replaced it with the silver one, slipping it between her waistband and her belt. She grabbed one of the pairs of boots out of the closet and hastily tugged them on before adding a stake to her impromptu arsenal.

After she returned the suitcase to its lair beneath the boxsprings, Faith turned her search on the kitchen and living room. There wasn't much to see here, but she did find a wallet between the couch cushions. It had a couple of credit cards, forty bucks cash, and her driver's license. Only this one wasn't like the license she remembered. For one thing, it was California-issued, not Ohio, and she was actually smiling in the DMV photo, which might have been the oddest part of all. Not once in her life had Faith smiled for the DMV.

Along with the wallet was one of those expensive new phones – the E-phone? A-Phone? Something like that. The Slayer spent a minute figuring out how to work the buttonless screen before she could access the call log. It read like something out of her eighteen-year-old daydreams. The first ten calls all belonged to Jack, Buffy, Angel, Wesley, and Giles, with a tie between Buffy and Jack for the most frequent caller.

Faith navigated her way to the contacts and scrolled through the address book. Lots of people she had tried to forget from her California days were listed there: Xander, Cordelia, Harmony, Willow, Willie the Snitch . . . But Spike, Andrew, Becka, and Lily were nowhere to be found. For that matter, neither were the Winchesters.

That wasn't enough to deter Faith. She had Dean's number memorized – could have recited it in her sleep. Hoping that this might actually work, the Slayer tapped the ten digits onto the touch screen. 7-8-5-5-5-5-2-5-7-5.

Please pick up, she thought as the call slowly rang out. She didn't have much of an idea what was going on here. Her actions felt too lucid, too directed for this to be a dream. Stuff tended to happen in Faith's dreams, and there was generally quite a lot of kicking ass and taking names, but she never recalled thinking so deliberately about any of it before. With dreaming out, that left alternate dimension or side-pocket universe or vengeance demon deal gone bad. If only she could remember what had happened just before she had woken up underneath that afghan! But her mind remained uncooperatively blank.

Come on, Dean. Pick up. Please. Pi –

November 2nd, 2008, just east of Live Oak, Florida, 3:30 p.m.

"Pick up, Faith," Dean growled into his cell as his brother regarded him warily from the back seat. "Come on. Pick up."

"What's going on?" asked Sam, straightening up in his seat and checking his seatbelt. With the way Dean was driving and the speedometer brushing past ninety, he had a feeling that the three-inch wide strip of nylon might actually get a chance to live up to its purpose.

"Damn it!" The older hunter tossed his phone across the front seat and slammed his boot down even further on the gas pedal.

"Dean. What's wrong with Faith?"

"So g-ddamned stupid. She decided to go poking her nose into probably monster hideouts, and then she hung up, and now I can't get a hold of her."

His brother looked at him with concern, meeting Dean's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Faith's a Slayer, isn't she? She can take care of herself. Remember what happened in New Jersey? She had Romeo and his evil girlfriend knocked out long before we got there."

"Yeah, and she also got herself shot in the process," snarled Dean at the mirror. "Remember?"

Sam undid the buckle on his seatbelt and scrambled over the back of the seat in front of him, reaching for his computer bag in the floorboard. As he dug out his laptop and fired it up, he said, "You got any idea on how to track her phone?"

Some of the anger faded from Dean's face. "Carrier's Verizon, I think. Phone's under Hope Lyonne. Last four on the Social's two-three-five-nine. You got her number in your phone?"

"I got it." Sam pulled up the Verizon webpage and located their customer service number. Dialing out, he secured his seatbelt and glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eye. "Hello? Yeah, I need to turn on the locator in a cell phone on an account of mine. It's my sister. She's got a bit of a wild streak, took off this morning saying something about going alligator-hunting. We haven't been able to get ahold of her all day. My dad's having emergency surgery for a heart attack right now, and I've got to find her. . . ."

His fingers danced across the keyboard. "Uh huh. I've got the website open now . . . . Account's under Hope Lyonne, that's L-y-o-n-n-e, and the social ends in two-three-five-nine. . . . Yeah, okay. Thank you, I really appreciate it." The hunter ended the call and continued typing. "I got her," he announced, as the screen zoomed in on a street map of St. Augustine and a flashing blue marker. "Well, her phone, anyway," he added in an undertone.

"Alligators and a heart attack? Way to go overboard there, Sammy."

"They bought it, didn't they?" the younger man shot back. "And it's Sam."

His brother sped past a psychedelicly painted creeper van and a trio of black sedans. "Whatever. Ease up on the overkill next go-around, all right?"

Knowing that silence was the better part of discretion, and discretion the better part of valor, Sam shut up. He just stared at the blinking locator on his laptop screen and hoped that wherever the phone was, it was still attached to the Slayer.

Dean's phone was disconnected. So was Sam's. Faith sat back on the couch, the chunky iPhone dangling in her clasped hands, her elbows braced on her knees. She had to remind herself that it didn't mean anything. Chances were, whatever funky dream world she was living in, they'd changed their numbers to one that she didn't know.

The Slayer eyed the locked front door warily. Although she had racked her brain for memories and answers ever since waking up under that afghan, it wasn't enough. She needed more information. Sticking the other-Faith's phone and wallet into her jean pockets, Faith stood and returned the butcher's knife to the kitchen. It would have been useless in a fight, anyway. The blade was too thin, and the edge a little too dull. Other-Faith was slacking off.

Dangling from a nail in the wall next to the refrigerator was a set of motorcycle keys. Faith's hand closed around them, her decision made. It was time to do some digging.

She locked the door of the apartment behind her and hurried down the stairs. As she had hoped, there was a motorbike parked out in front of the building, a sleek black Harley with sturdy leather saddlebags with bright metal fastenings on either side. Pushing the bike up straight, the Slayer nudged the kickstand back with the toe of her boot. She swung her leg over the seat and slid the motorcycle key in the ignition. It fit perfectly.

Finally. Something was going right today. Faith lifted a similarly sleek helmet out of the right saddlebag. No point in getting a head injury while she was on her magical mystery tour. After she fastened the strap beneath her chin, she turned the key. The engine roared to life beneath her. She opened up on the throttle, gave the bike and little gas, and she was off.

Over an hour passed while Faith drove around the town, looking for familiar landmarks. According to the gas receipts and the lease agreement, she was in Sunnydale, but was it her Sunnydale? She rode by all of the old haunts. The cemeteries were all still the same, with the same gates and mausoleums in the same places. The Summers' house on Revello drive had a minivan in the driveway and kids' bikes strewn across the front yard. The POS motel where she had lived for all those months back in ninety-eight and ninety-nine had been renamed, but it, too, was still there.

Everything was mostly the same, just a little different. Faith watched the buildings pass in mild bewilderment, until she got to the football stadium, which was when everything took a turn for the weirder. Sunnydale High was still standing, its stucco walls in desperate need of a facelift. Several minutes passed while she stared uncomprehendingly at the building, wondering what exactly its continued existence meant.

Eventually, the Slayer wound up at the library. She'd learned something in the last ten years. It didn't take much work to sweet-talk the librarian into showing her the online archives of the Sunnydale Herald. Faith spent another two hours skimming through the past decade of the paper, starting in January of ninety-eight and working her way up to the present. The Herald, like so many other newspapers, represented at best a sparse revisionist account of the dark side of Sunnydale's history, but Faith would take what she could get.

Her search proved far from fruitless. In the spring of 1999, three months before the high school graduation, Mayor Richard D. Willkins the third had passed away from 'natural causes.' The paper ran a lengthy obituary about his life and his hard work for the betterment of Sunnydale. Faith cringed despite herself. She then returned back to the fall of ninety-eight and combed through the obituaries, death notices, and crime reports, looking for something – anything about Deputy Mayor Allan Finch. There was nothing. It was as if Finch had never existed.

On a whim, Faith dragged up the hem of her t-shirt as discreetly as she could manage, running two fingers over her stomach in search of a very specific mark. But it wasn't there. Her scar, the scar that had resulted in her eight-month hospital stay, the scar that had defined and driven her murderous rage afterwards . . . it was gone. Completely. The skin over her right hip was smooth as if it had never existed. The Slayer added this to her growing list of evidence and forced herself to focus back on the Herald.

For the next few years, nothing else caught her interest. There were the same patterns of mysterious disappearances and even more mysterious deaths that centered on every Hellmouth, if a little more dampened than Faith would have predicted. In late 2001, the Herald had a brief death notice for Joyce Summers. The Slayer cringed a second time.

Faith hurried her search up to the spring of 2003. That had been when the first Evil showed its horrendously obnoxious face, when Gina had gone after her in prison, when Sunnydale itself had been blown to Hell. But there was nothing in the paper. Just standard Hellmouth mortality rates, nothing apocalyptical.

That was when the Slayer sat back in her chair, closed the web browser window, and reached for her phone. She was halfway through typing out a text message before she remembered that that particular number wouldn't work. Frak. Of all the times when she could really use a second opinion . . .

Deleting the half-written draft, Faith scanned the messages that had come in during her trip down false memory lane. There was one from Jack, asking how her day was going, and another from Buffy, asking the same thing. It was the third message that she focused on, a brief text from Wesley, saying only, Training this afternoon?

Yes, she texted back without thinking. When/where?

His response was immediate. Five-thirty. Back room at Bronze as per usual?

Faith checked the clock on the computer monitor. That gave her forty-five minutes to finish up and get something to eat. Her stomach had been growling fitfully for the last half-hour. Sounds good, she replied and got back to work, her belly voicing another protest. The Slayer ignored that along with her rising doubt.

"What the hell am I doing?" she whispered to the computer screen as she flicked through 2004, 2005, and then 2006. She was moving much more quickly now, wishing that this website had a search function. At ten past five, Faith exited the program and headed out to her bike.

On her way to the Bronze, she hit up Wendy's. Faith parked her motorcycle outside the familiar back door and devoured her bacon cheeseburger, sticking her helmet back into the empty right saddlebag. As she ate, she unsnapped the cover on the left saddlebag and rummaged through it. There was a black drawstring bag with a tank top, sports bra, yoga pants, and sneakers, as well as an assortment of granola bars, three stakes, and a flask of holy water shoved down into the bottom.

She was repacking the workout clothes when another motorcycle pulled up next to her. The rider, dressed in dark washed jeans and a leather jacket, parked less than a foot off to her right and removed his helmet. He was tall, six-foot and pocket change, his face a little weatherbeaten, but his eyes were bright, amused, alive.

"You're early," he said in tones of mild surprise.

For the last twenty minutes, Faith had been steeling herself for this. Her relationship with Wesley had always been . . . complicated. There was too much between them – owed and owing, wronged and wronging, broken promises and betrayal. And yet, that last year or so, they had started letting go of some of that. But then Wes had died.

The Slayer had wondered, off and on, in the long nights since then, what might have happened had life been different, had she had a little more time to fix it. Faith wasn't much of a believer in closure. Most burned bridges never got rebuilt, and she was okay with that. Except for a few things – like Buffy, like Angel, like Wes.

Now, Faith looked this other-Wes over carefully, taking in the new lines around his eyes and the way he parted his hair – not quite as strict a combover as shiny new Watcher Wesley's had been, but stricter and more gelled than she had seen it in L.A. She searched for the mark where his throat had been slashed and saw nothing. This older man might be Wesley, but he wasn't the Wesley she knew.

All this flashed through her mind in the thirty seconds it took for her to knock the kickstand down and step away from the bike. "Hey, Wes."

Wesley raised an impeccable eyebrow, stripping off his riding gloves and tucking them inside a black messenger bag. "Faith."

There was no rancor in his voice, no bitterness, no exasperated exhaustion. It completely threw her.

"I trust you found nothing of interest on your patrol last night?"

"Uh . . ." Faith added another mark in the mental column of 'other-Faith is definitely a Slayer.' "Nothing of interest, no."

"Good. You and Buffy have been doing an excellent job of staying on top of the vampiric activity for the last few months. I am beginning to wonder if it hasn't been a little . . . too quiet? Have either of you started having the dreams again?"

"The dreams?" she said uncomprehendingly. It was difficult to pay attention to his words; she was too distracted by the thoughts whirring through her head.

The Watcher stepped past her. "Your prophetic dreams." He tried the door to the Bronze and found it locked. Wes looked at her expectantly. "Keys?"

"I . . . uh, yeah." Faith fumbled with her key ring, at last finding the one key that hadn't fit either her apartment door or her motorcycle. It slid easily into the heavy lock. The Slayer twisted the key and pulled the thick metal door open. "You should ask Buffy about the dreams," she said. "She's always been more sensitive to stuff like that than I am."

Wesley led the way into the empty depths of the Bronze. "And yet, it was your premonitions that tipped us off to the entity calling itself the First Evil and allow us to defeat it promptly and satisfactorily." He stopped in the middle of the main floor beside one of the pool tables and set his messenger bag on top of the green carpeting.

To Faith's surprise, the Watcher removed his leather motorcycle jacket and the collared shirt beneath it, leaving him in just an undershirt. She was half-tempted to look away. Old or not, Watcher or not, Wes was hot. This version didn't seem to have that mad, dangerous edge that her Wes had developed in L.A., but he was still fit and gave off an air of competency.

"I thought we might make today's drill a little more realistic," he said casually as he pulled a roll of tape out of his bag and began wrapping his knuckles. "And no better place than this old haunt. How much money do they spend each year rebuilding and rehiring personnel after each monster attack?"

Following his lead, the Slayer walked over to the pool table and started taping her own knuckles. "Not a clue."

"I find that hard to believe," Wes snorted. "What with you being the current night manager."

Faith shrugged, struggling to maintain her poker face. Manager of the Bronze? That was news to her. "Owners don't tell me everything," she improvised, finished with the tape on her left hand. She moved to the right. "So, Wes, what are the rules for today?"

She was still treading on eggshells, unsure of what their dynamic was supposed to be. He didn't seem particularly tense in her presence, but neither was he full of pretension and self-importance as he had been when they first met.

Wesley smiled, and the darkness deep inside Faith raised its head in response. It was an ironic, dangerous smile, hinting at adventure and trouble. Both a challenge and a promise, it reminded her of Dean, somehow. "Like I said," he repeated, his voice polished and articulate, "I thought we might make things more . . . realistic. As you know, I just got back from a weekend in Los Angeles. Picked up a little something while I was there."

As he spoke, the Watcher pulled a handgun out of his bag. Faith flinched automatically. "Don't worry," said Wes, still smiling that dangerous smile. "It's a paintball gun."

"A paintball gun?" In some ways, that was almost worse. "That's going to make a mess."

He laid the pistol down on the pool table. "Since when has that bothered you?"

"Geez, Wes, I dunno. Since I'm the manager of this joint? Something tells me my boss isn't gonna be too pleased if I redecorate in paint splatters."

"It would be an improvement on the current décor."

Faith held up her hands in defense. "Hey, I don't make the decorating decisions."

"No, you just hire the bouncers and book the bands. By the way, I caught a few new acts while I was in the city. They weren't quite the kings of grind and thrash, but I think you might find them enjoyable. Remind me to give you their business cards after. I believe the cards have links to their MySpace pages. Something like that."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Now . . ." Wesley lifted the paintball gun and pointed it directly in her face. "Shall we begin?"


	63. Paradise City, pt 3

Without further ado, Faith whirled into a spinning kick, snapping her foot out high to knock the paintball gun from Wesley's grip and send it clattering to the ground. She followed the kick up with a flurry of blows to the Watcher's arms and torso. Unexpectedly, Wesley blocked each of her strikes by bringing his arms up in an X in front of him. Weaving and bobbing from side to side, he stayed just out of her reach. That was okay. Faith had her Plan B.

The Slayer advanced, intent on backing him up against the pool table. She'd pin him there, give him a couple of sucker punches to the gut, and hey, presto, it would all be over. Game. Set. Match.

But Wes was outthinking her today. Just as his lower back brushed the scratched rim of the pool table, he dropped his guard enough to give her access to his face. Wes caught her incoming right hook in one hand and twisted Faith's arm behind her back painfully while at the same time stomping his motorcycle boot hard against the inside of her right knee. Faith's ankle rolled, and she crashed down onto her knees.

A kick to her back slammed her entire body facedown on the cold concrete floor. She pushed back up onto her knees, using her single free hand for leverage. Then she rolled her shoulders forcefully and tore her arm loose from the Watcher's grip, simultaneously lashing out with her boot to catch Wes in the gut.

They both landed on their backs, but Faith was the first to recover. She scrambled across the concrete to straddle the man and keep him down. Faith sat solidly on his stomach, his knees on either side of his chest, her hands shoving his shoulders against the floor.

"Nice try, Wes," she gloated, enjoying the frustration in his eyes and the way his chest rose and fell as he gasped for air beneath her. For a brief, inexplicable second, she was tempted to lean down and kiss him.

The Watcher planted his boots hard into the concrete flooring. He gripped her waist just above her belt, his hands firm and pressing into her skin. Twisting with his hips, he reversed their positions so that he was the one on top. A knife appeared in his hands out of nowhere, and he held it just beneath Faith's chin at the point where her artery disappeared behind the angle of her jaw. Wes tapped the knife against her neck, not hard enough to cut her, but hard enough to be felt. "You were saying?" He smiled that dangerous smile again.

Looking up into his amused blue eyes, Faith clenched her teeth. She knew what that tap meant: she had lost the match. "Uncle?" she joked.

Wesley rose and extended a hand to pull the Slayer to her feet. "Not bad, for having the week off," he called over his shoulder as he crossed the floor to retrieve the paintball gun. "But it seems like you're holding back."

"Don't wanna hurt you, Wes." Faith walked over to the pool table and added layer of tape over her knuckles. She'd bashed them against the floor when he had kicked her to the ground. "Unlike some of us, you don't have super-healing powers."

"I know. Which is why I plan ahead."

Something slammed into the small of her back, just beneath her kidneys. Faith rocked forward into the pool table as pain and an odd burning sensation blossomed out from the point of impact. Craning her neck around, she caught sight of a splatter of red paint on the back of her white t-shirt. "What's this, Watcher gone gangster?" she groaned as another paintball hit her in the thigh.

Faith turned so that the third shot caught her right above her belly button. "Seriously, Wes?" She started walking towards him, her hands clasped loosely behind her back. "You know I'm just going to take that from you."

He lowered the gun a few inches. "You aren't taking this seriously enough, Faith. Just because nothing particularly big or bad has shown up in the last year and a half doesn't mean that the next almost-Apocalypse isn't just around the corner. You need to be prepared. You need to keep honing your skills. So if this is what it takes . . ."

A burst of green paint exploded out from Faith's sternum as he shot her in the chest. Faith closed the last few inches between them and wrenched the pistol out of the Watcher's hands. "Okay, that kinda hurt. And now I'm kinda pissed."

"See?" said Wesley, something like approval glinting in the backs of his eyes. "Wasn't so hard, was it? It's what you'll need to beat them."

The Slayer recoiled. Those words were too close by half to something that another Wesley had said in the alleyway behind the Orpheus shooting gallery. She remembered the entirety of that argument verbatim, although she had tried so desperately hard to forget. On cue, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce's words rang through her head, souring everything in her stomach and turning it to pure, acidic bile:

_This the part where you tell me you've turned over a new leaf? Found God? Inner peace? We both know that isn't true. You haven't changed. You can't. Because you're sick. You've always been sick. It goes right down to the roots rotting your soul. That's why your friends turned on you in Sunnydale, why the Watchers Council tried to kill you. No one trusts you Faith. You're a rabid dog who should have been put down years ago!_

Impulsively, Faith jammed the gun between them, the barrel pressed directly over Wesley's heart. He didn't jump backwards or push her away, just stared at her, his blue eyes boring into her brown ones.

"Good. You're committing."

"And you're lucky that I, unlike you, draw the line at ruining perfectly good clothes during training." The Slayer tossed the pistol across the room, and she heard a slight clang from behind her as it collided with the far wall. "Funny new way you got of delivering pep talks, Wesley."

"Can't have you getting complacent."

"Right. So . . . you won one, I won one, best two out of three?"

Wes checked his watch. "Or best three out of five. Your employees do not arrive until seven, if I remember correctly."

"Kinda creepy how well you've got my schedule memorized, Pryce."

"Wyndham-Pryce, Faith. And I am, after all, your Watcher."

"Twenty-eight, a college graduate, and I still got myself a Watcher? What do you even do, sit around playing bingo while I'm off being all-grown-up?" Faith joked, interested in his response. She still needed far more information about other-Faith's life and what had happened in Sunnydale. Why hadn't the Mayor succeeded? What had happened here, ten years ago?

"Why, yes," said Wesley sardonically. "When I'm not day trading or teaching at the university, I do enjoy a good game of bingo – or even the occasional soap opera. However did you find me out?"

"One of your bingo partners," extemporized Faith. "He comes in here like every night."

"Ahh." The Watcher nodded sagely. "That explains it. Although I must say, I had thought my Western Europe and the Dark Ages class would have stuck a little more in your mind. You certainly seemed engaged with the material at the time – more so than Buffy, anyway."

Faith shrugged, hiding her shock. Wes taught at U.C. Sunnydale, and she had taken a class from him? He'd better have given her an A – or at least nothing worse than a B. 'What can I say? Must have inhaled too much cockroach fumigation around here. Back to work?"

"Let's."

* * *

It was another forty-five minutes before they finished sparring. Both Watcher and Slayer were liberally coated in paint and dripping with sweat. Wesley had the beginnings of a black eye slowly swelling into being on the left side of his face, and Faith had cut up both sets of knuckles. She felt like she was a walking collection of bruises, but it was worth it. For a glorious half-hour or so, she had completely forgotten that she was in Backwards land, and everything had distilled down to the simple, sacred dance of attack and defend.

"Who's playing tonight?" asked Wesley as he tugged his plaint-splattered undershirt over his head and made his way towards the back room where the staff lockers were. Without asking her permission, he approached the locker labeled 'Lehane' and spun the dial on the bright blue combination lock.

"I can't remember," said Faith honestly.

"Well . . . I do have class to teach in the morning, and I have little desire to mingle with my students tonight – I haven't quite finished grading their midterms, and I'm not going to give them another opportunity to pester me about it." Wes opened the locker and retrieved a black drawstring bag that matched the one other-Faith used for her gym clothes. "But if the band were decent . . . "

"Here." He handed her the bag. "Unless you're going to try to sell those as post-apocalyptic chic, you had better change."

On the bottom of the locker shelf was a pile of folded ratty t-shirts. Wes grabbed one of these and slid his arms and head through the holes. Faith tried to suppress her regret as his perfectly acceptable abs disappeared from view. Instead, she turned her back on him and changed quickly out of her own ruined shirt into the charcoal gray tank top with rhinestones along the shoulders that other-Faith kept for emergencies.

"Can I ask you something?" she wondered.

Wesley looked up from fixing the buttons on his neat blue-striped dress shirt. "As long as it doesn't involve subbing when one of your bouncers fails to show up again."

"Nah, nothing like that," said the Slayer nervously. "What I was wondering was, er, . . . how much do you know about hunters?"

"Game hunters, you mean?"

"No. And not your everyday demon hunters. Well, not strictly demon hunters. You know, the kind of hunters who take on a little of everything – ghosts, demons, werewolves, shapeshifters, revenants, the whole kit and caboodle. And they use whatever they have to, from protective _gris-gris_ to a bit of dark magic to do it."

"I believe I know the type of person to which you are referring. What did you want to know?"

"I'm trying to get ahold of a guy I met once – years ago. He probably doesn't remember me. He and his family were hunters – some of the best, from what I heard. You're better with the technology Internet stuff than I am. I was wondering if . . . "

"If I would help you locate him?" the Watcher finished zipping up his black leather jacket. "I don't see why not. What was the name of this friend of yours?"

Faith inhaled once and then threw caution to the wind. "His name's Winchester. Dean Winchester."

* * *

**November 2nd, 2008, St. Augustine, Florida, 5:15 p.m.**

After an incredibly hair-raising two hours on the highway, Sam and Dean pulled up outside an abandoned steel factory. According to Verizon's GPS-locating system, this would be where they found their Slayer. Or, at least, her cell phone. The brakes screamed in protest as the Impala careened to a halt. Dean bounced impatiently from foot to foot as his brother transferred the locating screen from his laptop to his cell phone.

"Come on. What is taking you so long?"

"Look, if you're so concerned about keeping track of Faith, why don't you just lojack her? Or stick a bell on her, like people do on cats."

The withering look that Dean shot him in response could have caused sudden crop failures in several Midwestern states.

"Sorry. I'm going as fast as I can. Just give me a minute . . . There." Sam held up his phone. "We got signal."

"Finally." Dean shoved his Colt down in the back of his waistband and tossed his brother's Taurus over the hood of the car. "Let's go."

They followed the blinking locator through the bowels of the factory, past the rusting remains of abandoned machinery and forgotten raw materials. Near the back door of the building, they found Faith's chunky LG lying on top of a half-collapsed assembly line, whirring and flashing its factory pre-set ringtone. Dean took one look at the mobile on the conveyor belt, and then he stepped away, shining his flashlight into the corners of the great room.

"Faith!" he called to the darkness. "Faith!"

Sam picked up the still-ringing cell phone and answered it. "Hello?"

"Faith, where are you? I need hel – " The woman's voice stuttered to a halt. "Who is this?" she asked suspiciously.

"Friend of Faith's."

"Well, pass the phone over, will you? I don't know when he's coming back."

"When who's coming back?"

"It . . . it doesn't matter. Just put Faith on."

"She's not here. Who're you?"

"I'm Vi, and I really need her. We were . . . investigating something together. Someone snuck up on me. All I can remember is a flash of blue light and then wham! Blunt force trauma to the head. I woke up in the old saddle shop over by the winery, trussed up like some Thanksgiving turkey. Got myself loose, busted out a back window, ran down to the nearest gas station. I'm trying to keep watch on the saddle shop, see if whoever dropped me there turns back up, but I need back up. Where's Faith?"

"Not here. Think that guy who pulled a disappearing act with you mighta done the same thing with her. Give us your current location, and we'll come get you."

"Who's we?" demanded Vi.

"Sam and Dean Winchester. We're hunters. Whatever it is, we can help."

"Ohhh. You're . . . I'd forgotten. Look, I'm at the Sunoco on Ponce de Leon Boulevard. Just, hurry, please?"

"We'll be there soon as we can."

Ending the call, Sam tucked Faith's phone down into his pocket. "Dean!" he bellowed, unable to see his brother. "Dude, we gotta go! That friend of Faith's, the Slayer she was down here helping out, she needs our help."

Dean emerged from the gloom, his face tight and angry. "She's not on the ground floor. Couldn't see any signs of a blood trail, either. So I guess that's something. Need to check upstairs before we go anywhere."

"This girl, Vi – it sounded like she was in trouble."

"Where was she?" The older hunter listened as Sam related the details of his phone call. When Sam finished, his brother snorted. "Yeah, sounds like she's in big trouble. She's safe in a gas station, and we don't have an single clue about what happened to Faith, other than 'blue.' 'Blue' what? Dammit, Sam, I'm not leaving here until I've looked through the whole place, okay? You call Vi back, tell her to stay put, keep out of trouble, and then we're combing this place through from top to bottom. If Faith's here, we'll find her. If she's . . . if she's not here, we'll go from there. Okay?"

"Okay." Sam clicked on his own flashlight, careful not to poke the bear by shining the beam into his brother's eyes. "Where do you want to start?"

* * *

At seven on the dot, workers began pouring in through the back door to the Bronze, turning on the ceiling lights, setting up tables and chairs, running a broom across the concrete floor. Faith rather thought that she'd managed to catch most of the paint on her clothes and Wesley's, but whatever she'd missed probably wouldn't be noticed in the middle of the constant aura of grunge and grime that always hung about this place.

"Hey, Faith!" a pair of girls in their early twenties said cheerfully, as they headed behind the bar counter and started firing up the cappuccino machine. "Isn't it great that Dingoes are playing tonight? Way to go on getting them back in!"

"Thanks?" the Slayer replied uncertainly. She glanced over her shoulder to where Wesley was hefting his messenger bag up to his shoulder, the top carefully zipped closed. "Dingoes?" she mouthed to him, forgetting for a moment that while he might be her Watcher and her sparring partner, he was not necessarily her ally in this, this, whatever this was.

The older man regarded her with mild surprise. "Did you book Dingoes Ate My Baby again? I think I heard something about them finishing up their most recent national tour."

"Dingoes Ate My . . . " It took a good fifteen seconds for it all to click. "Oz's band? I thought they broke up when he went to Tibet."

"I can't say that I remember hearing about a trip to Tibet. Are you feeling all right?" Wesley laid the back of his hand against her forehead. He looked down at her with a curious mixture of mocking and solicitousness. "You don't seem feverish," he teased. "How late were you out patrolling last night?"

Faith batted his hand away, ignoring the lurch in the pit of her stomach that accompanied it. "What are you going on about?"

But whatever openness had been in the Watcher's face was quickly shuttered. "I suspect that you are a bit punch drunk," he said more solemnly. "You should get some sleep, when your shift ends tonight." He turned to leave.

"You're not staying?" The words slipped out before Faith could censor herself. It was just . . . now that Wesley was alive again, she felt an extreme reluctance to watch him walk away.

"No." Wesley shook his head. "Virginia and I have reservations at Michel's at eight."

"Your girlfriend?"

He frowned. "My fiancée," he corrected gently. "Really, Faith, you're a little out of it tonight. Are you sure you're feeling well?"

"Maybe I am a little tired," admitted the Slayer. "I'll crash eventually. We close at midnight?"

"Fortune is in your favor. Since it is Sunday, I believe you close at eleven." Wesley checked his watch. "Only three and a half hours to go. Good luck."

And with a faint smile, the Watcher ducked between two roadies carrying in amplifiers for the Dingoes, and Wesley was gone.

Without him, Faith felt suddenly alone. Surrounded by people, all of whom seemed to know her, calling out greetings and asking her questions, but still she was completely and utterly alone. The Dingoes trickled in just before the front doors opened at eight, setting up their drums and guitars for the final sound check. Oz nodded to her in acknowledgement, his hair spiked up like Sonic the hedgehog, and strummed the opening chords of one of the Dingoes' most popular hits on his bass.

Her employees all appeared capable of running the venue on their own, and so Faith found a column in one of the darker corners to lean up against, her arms folded across her chest. Her sides ached from her earlier paintball fight, and her brain was still whirring, trying to make sense of her circumstances. She watched in the shadows as the dance floor filled with high school kids and college students, as the Dingoes began their first set, as people she knew from another life trickled in through the great door of the Bronze.

Willow wandered in soon after the set began, accompanied by a blonde woman in a long, flowy peasant skirt. Xander and Anyanka came in not long after her, holding hands and looking at each other like a couple of horny teenagers. They joined Willow and her friend at one of the low couches and coffee tables set back near the staircase up to the loft.

Faith observed them from her corner, pursing her lips. Xander and Willow always left her feeling uncomfortable. There was little love lost there. After twenty minutes or so, Buffy entered the building. The Slayer didn't even have to look around to know B was there. She could just kind of feel it. The energy of the place changed. And then it changed a second time.

Vampire. Faith glanced around the crowded dance floor, looking for whichever fang she was going to have to put out of its misery tonight. No one caught her eye, but Faith kept searching. Finally her eyes lit on Buffy, as the shorter woman made her way through the press of people towards the sofa where her friends were waiting. She appeared happier than Faith remembered, even through the poor lighting of the Bronze. Buffy was laughing, tilting her head back to look up at someone.

Someone . . . the Slayer knew that silhouette, knew the man following Buffy across the dance floor, his hand on her shoulder. She had just spent almost a year nursing that silhouette back to a healthy un-life.

"Angel." It was barely a whisper. She loitered in her dark corner as she took in what this meant. Buffy and Angel were back together again. That much was obvious from the way Angel's hands lingered on Buffy's waist and the way Buffy couldn't take her eyes off of him. And if Faith's instincts could at all be trusted, not only were they back together, they were back to doing it . . . .

"I can't deal with this," she grumbled to herself. "No frakking way can I deal with this. I'm not dealing with Barbie and Ken and the Perfect Happiness train wreck machine."

Before she could reconsider, Faith slipped from shadow to shadow until she reached the front door. Giving the bouncer some B.S. excuse about a stomach bug, she convinced him to close up for her. Without so much as a glance behind her, the Slayer hopped up onto her Harley and took off. She needed to get some air, clear her head.

* * *

In the end, she found herself outside the gates of Sunnydale's oldest cemetery. Faith parked her Harley inconspicuously behind a six-foot evergreen hedge and then scaled the wrought-iron fence like it was a jungle gym.

The silence of the graveyard was a balm to her frenzied thoughts. Although November nights in Sunnydale could get chilly, the Slayer paid the weather no heed. She strolled through the gravel paths and limestone grave markers, her shoulders bared beneath her tank top, a stake in each of her hands.

Here in the darkness, with nothing but herself, the monsters, and the empty night, Faith could finally breathe again. She quit trying to list all the weird things going on, quit trying to suss out what exactly had happened to her, and just existed. The gravel crunched quietly beneath her boots, and somewhere high in one of the trees, an owl hooted sleepily. And Faith was home.

She walked up and down the deserted paths until she came to a fresh grave. Faith propped herself up on the nearest headstone and waited. Perhaps she would get lucky tonight and a vampire would try to rise. She could use some luck, right about now.

While she waited, the Slayer struggled to get her thoughts into order. Buffy had been texting her sporadically throughout the afternoon, as had Jack. For a multitude of reasons, Faith had yet to respond, not least because talking to Buffy tended to never end well for her. As far as Jack went, she knew that sooner or later she would need to sleep and would have to return to her apartment and deal with whatever it was she found there. In the meantime, Faith was more than content to feign ignorance.

"What's a nice Slayer like you doing in a place like this?"

At the sound of the familiar voice, Faith swung her legs over the far side of her tomb stone and jumped down to the ground. "Spike," she said neutrally.

"Slayer," spat Spike, literally, sending a glob of phlegm to land centimeters away from the toe of Faith's left boot. "You shouldn't be here."

"It's the middle of a g-ddamn cemetery in the middle of the night, Spike. Where else would I be?" The Slayer moved slowly backward, drawing the vampire out of the darkness towards a patch of grass illuminated by moonlight. As he came into clearer view, Faith struggled not to reveal her shock.

The vampire was emaciated, his cheekbones knife-sharp against his skin, his wrists whittled away to almost nothing. "You shouldn't be here," he repeated, crowing with unholy delight. "Not tonight. It isn't your night. Angel said that it wasn't your night."

"What the hell happened to you?" Despite her better judgement, Faith reached out to touch the vampire's face.

He jerked backwards, far past arm's length. "Easy, Slayerhead. I don't need another set of bruises to match last week's, thanks. I'm still multicolored from your and the Slutty one's last little lesson."

The Slayer stared at him in horror. He looked absolutely pitiful, like one of those starved puppies they always featured on the Sarah MacLachlan commercials. "What have you been eating?"

Spike snorted, taken aback. "What's it matter to you? I'm just your resident punching bag when you can't find something better to do."

"Right." Abandoning that tack, Faith changed the subject. "Where are you living, Spike? Do you have a crypt nearby or something?"

His eyes darted to the right, focusing on a particular mausoleum for a brief second. It only lasted an instant, but that was more than enough for Faith.

"I see. And I'm just gonna apologize in advance . . . " Faith slammed her right fist into the vampire's chin, knocking him unconscious. Lifting him easily off the cold grass, she hoisted Spike over her shoulder and carried him towards the mausoleum that he had indicated earlier. The Slayer set him down and leaned him against the mausoleum door while she figured out how to break her way into the vampire's crypt.

* * *

By the time Spike came back around, she had taken him into the main subterranean chamber of his macabre

residence. The vampire woke up and found himself bound in iron chains to his one and only favorite armchair. Faith sat on a three-legged wooden stool in front of him, a stake in one hand and a silver dagger in the other.

"I need some answers," she said briskly, staring into the vampire's piercing blue eyes.

"And what, you're gonna beat them out of me? You know, if I didn't have this damned chip in, you'd think twice before touching me. I'd peel the skin off your bones and rip your heart out right in front of your eyes."

"No." The Slayer rose to her feet. "I'm not going to hit you. I've got a better plan."

"Great." Spike rolled his eyes. "I love torture. Try to be a bit more imaginative this time than last, all right, pet? It's starting to get a little boring."

"No torture." Faith held the silver knife above her left forearm. She made a thin, superficial incision about two inches long, perpendicular to the long muscles running there. The Slayer stepped forward, cupping the back of Spike's neck with her other palm and bringing her bleeding arm up to the vampire's mouth. She stopped when her arm was scant inches from his face, which had switched into fanged brow-mode. "You look like sh-t, Spike. So here's what's going to happen. I'm gonna give you a little superfood, up your vitamin count here, and then you're going to answer my questions. Sound good?"

With great effort, Spike tore his eyes away from the blood in front of him and met her gaze, desperation and need written plainly in every line on his face. "Deal," he growled, deep in his throat.

"Okay," said the Slayer resolutely, lifting her arm the last few inches. "Drink up."


	64. Paradise City, pt 4

**November 2nd, 2008, Sunnydale, California, 10:42 p.m.**

Faith stood still as a statue while Spike went to town on her forearm, lapping and sucking at the human blood that he obviously had been deprived of. It didn't hurt so much as it stung. Certainly nowhere near as painful as when Angelus got his fangs into her. In case things started going sideways, Faith kept a stake in her right hand, and she was half a second away from using it. After a minute or so, the Slayer pulled her cut-up arm away from the vampire and stepped backwards. Spike whined in protest.

"You answer my questions, and there'll be more where this came from," she promised, sinking back onto her wooden stool. The cut on her arm had mostly stopped bleeding – must be som

e kind of procoagulant in vampire saliva – but a bright red suction mark surrounded it. Faith wondered if this meant she was going to have a giant hickey in the morning. That might be hard to explain to the live-in boyfriend.

"What is going on with you, Slayer?" demanded Spike, glaring at her from beneath his ridged eyebrows.

Not for the first time, she reflected that vampires were really much more attractive before they got all fangy. "Nothing you need to know about," Faith fired back. "I ask you some questions, you tell me the truth, and you get a little more Slayer blood. Win-win for everyone."

Spike licked his lips, catching the last traces of blood that lingered around his mouth. "When I get out of here . . ."

"I'm sure you'll be very terrifying. Now, talk to me. How long have you been in Sunnydale?"

The vampire raised his eyebrows. "You high or something, Slayer? You know the answers to all of this stuff."

"Pretend like I don't."

His glare intensified. "First time was back in '97."

"With Drusilla and then with Angelus."

"Smarmy bastard, but yeah."

Faith leaned forward on her stool. "And the next time?"

"Late fall of '98. But, like I said, you know that. You and Slutty the Vampire Slayer were the ones who tried to send me packing so you could rescue Red and the Idiot Boy."

"B and me? Not Buffy and Angel."

Spike shook his head. "Nah. You and Blondie. The two of you were attached at the hip, just same as you've always been. I hadn't thought the rumors could be right – two Slayers, thick as thieves? Not even a Hellmouth deserves that kinda Hell. But then I got into town, and you found me. And I realized those whoresons out in L.A. had been telling the truth."

The Slayer carefully kept her face blank as she filed that particular bit of information away for further review. "And the next time you came to Sunnydale?"

"Early fall of '99. That's when that bloody Initiative got their filthy patriotic hands on me and shoved this blasted bit of plastic in my brain." The vampire pointed angrily at his skull with one black-nailed finger, his arms pushing up against the chains around his torso. "Haven't been right since. Couldn't really get away from here, either, 'cuz that's when you and the original Slayer decided that you might as well make my life a living nightmare and started trying to turn me into your frakking stool pigeon."

"Did it work?" the woman asked, curious.

"Like you don't know," scoffed Spike.

Faith watched him expectantly. "Well?"

"No, it didn't work. But you two made it so as no one in this whole g-ddamned town would trust me."

"Then why didn't you just take off?"

Spike groaned and slammed his head back against the armchair. "Because, you bloody stupid bint, the Poofter and Slutty Barbie decided that it was better for all considered if I was where you could keep an eye on me."

"Angel."

"I hate him. More'n I hate Slutty, and more'n I hate you, if that's possible. But, again, Slayerhead, you know all this. I don't know what kind of game you're playing now, but I've about had it."

Ignoring his ill temper, Faith pressed, "So every time you tried to make a break for it and move somewhere else, Buffy or Angel brought you back to Sunnydale again?"

He nodded in silent assent.

"Why didn't they just kill you? Seems like it woulda been kinder. Cleaner, even."

"I stopped trying to figure out Angel's lack of reasoning a long time ago. Now, come on, I've done my part. Time for you to pay up."

"Real little dictator, aren't you?" Her bruises protesting, the Slayer rose from the stool. "Here." She made another incision across her arm, a few centimeters closer to her wrist. "Watch your teeth."

"I'm gonna figure out your angle on this," warned Spike. He cleared the blood away from her wound with a slow lick of his tongue. "You should be careful," he added after a long moment, glancing up at Faith.

The Slayer rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah?"

Spike took another drink, his Adam's apple moving up and down, his fangs pressed against but not breaking the skin. It was a fine line that they were walking, Faith's spoken consent the only thing preventing the chip in his head from exploding into a starburst of pain. "If'n Angelus ever gets wind of this little arrangement of ours . . . he's going to want a share of the pie . . . especially once he . . ."

"Once he what?" When Spike didn't answer, Faith jerked her arm away from him. "Hey, Captain Peroxide. I'm talking to you. Once Angel what's?"

At first, she thought he wasn't going to answer the question, but then the vampire blinked lazily. His forehead smoothed out, and his fangs disappeared into his jaw. He sucked his teeth and watched her, waiting for something.

Finally, he said, "Pig's better than rat. Human's better than pig. And Slayer, well, that's a whole 'nother story."

"So B and me, we're like the filet mignon of blood donors?" The woman returned to her wooden stool, crossing her legs at the knee.

"Bit more . . . specific than that. Don't forget, sweetheart. You're the third Slayer I've had. The first was during the Boxer Rebellion. She was all light – strawberries and raw sugar. The second one – nineteen seventies' New York. She was angrier, more bittersweet. Like a cherry that's just about to turn. Now you . . ."

"Yes?"

The vampire's tongue swept out to the corners of his mouth. "Regret."

"Really?" Faith ran her thumb along the halfway congealed blood near her wrist and then popped the thumb into her mouth. "Huh. Just tastes like copper to me."

"Thing that's got me wondering is what's a Slayer like you got to feel so damned full of regret about. And why it is that your heart only just now started thumping fit to beat the band." Spike leaned forward in his chair, pushing with his elbows against the armrests. "Something's up with you, Slayer. And I'm going to suss it out, whatever it is."

She laughed. "Let me know what you find out. But first, I've got a few more questions."

"What do you want to know?"

"You've been around here pretty consistently for the last ten years?"

"On and off, yeah."

"What do you know about the Scoobies?"

"That dozy cartoon dog?"

"No. Willow, Xander, and the rest of Buffy's hangers-on."

Spike narrowed his blue eyes. "You running some sort of recon mission? That what this is? Trying to figure out how much I know?"

Faith smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Let's just say I'm on a really strange acid trip."

"You aren't," he said flatly.

"Humor me."

* * *

**November 2nd, 2008, St. Augustine, Florida, 6:45 p.m.**

It took them a little over an hour to clear the abandoned steelworks plant. In Sam's opinion, they could have whipped through the place in less than thirty minutes, but Dean was working himself up into a raging panic, so he went along. They explored every room on every floor of the factory, checking beneath every work table and shining their flashlights into every shadowy corner. At length, even Dean had to admit the obvious. Wherever Faith was, she sure as hell wasn't there.

Covered in dust, the brothers returned to their car and used Sam's GPS to find their way over to the Sunoco on Ponce de Leon. When they arrived, Dean barked for Sam to go inside and find Violet.

"I'm gonna stay here," he said, a muscle spasming alongside his jaw. "You get Slayer the Next Generation."

"Okay." Sam closed the shotgun door to the Impala. He lingered for a moment, his hand over the open window frame. "Dean, we're gonna find her."

"Not if you don't get your ass in gear and hurry."

Dean watched his brother head into the gas station out of the corner of his eye. Once Sam was completely out of sight, the older hunter bowed his head over the steering wheel, taking in deep lungfuls of air. Dean counted to thirty, and then he sat up straight. Reaching into the side pocket of his door, he pulled out his own hunter's journal and flipped to a blank page. The hunter bit down on the inside of his cheek and started scribbling.

_St. Augustine, FA, 11/2/08_

After he wrote the heading, he froze, his pen dangling over the paper. They didn't really know much of anything – and nowhere near as much as Dean would have liked to. Still, he racked his memory of the last two phone calls with Faith. What had she said exactly? As bits of information came filtering back in, he jotted them down.

_Exsanguination_

_Odd bite marks_

_Blue_

The hunter stared at the list in his lap, frowning. Something about that seemed familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Before he could make any more progress, Sam tapped on the driver's side window glass to catch his attention and then stepped around the front of the car, a slight redheaded woman at his heels.

"This is Vi," introduced Sam, sliding back into the front seat. "Vi, meet my brother, Dean."

"Oh," said the woman as she got into the car, giving him an appraising look. "You're the Dean."

Dean swung around to stare her down. "You know something about me?"

Vi flushed, an harsh red blotch that spread from her cheekbones all the way down her neck. "Well, no more than anybody else."

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded the hunter.

Her blush deepened. "Well, I mean, it's the kinda stuff that travels along the Slayer grapevine."

"What kinda stuff?" encouraged Sam, glancing back and forth between his brother and the Slayer. He was of two minds. Either this was going to be horrifying, or it would be hysterical.

The Slayer shrank under their intense scrutiny. "You know," she said, her voice jumping up half an octave into a squeak. "Just that you're one of the few hunters who's any good, and that . . . "

"Yeah?" prompted Sam and Dean in unison.

Vi looked away and mumbled very quickly, "That you're kinda sorta Faith's not-so-secret super-secret boyfriend."

Dean swore. "Why the hell is everyone so bound and determined to make us a couple, huh? Answer me that."

When neither Vi nor Sam said anything, the hunter turned around and jerked the car into reverse. "I don't have time for this," he grumbled, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. "We need to figure out what the hell kinda thing's been killing people in this town – as soon as possible, and preferably by yesterday. What do you got on the previous victims?"

"I have their case files at my house. It's a fifteen minute drive from here. I can give you directions, if you want."

"Good. We'll start there. Sam, can you work out how to hack into the city's traffic cameras? I want to run the tapes by the steel factory and by the saddlery. See if we can find the same car in both places. This guy had to have transported the Slayers in a vehicle of some kind."

"Okay." Opening his laptop back up, the younger man began typing in a series of commands. "I'll see what I can do."

"All right. Now, Vi, what's the quickest way to your house?"

* * *

Apart from Violet's quiet directions, no one spoke until they reached the stucco one-story, its yellow sides gleaming in the last dying light of the sun. Sam set up his computer on the kitchen table and connected to the Wifi while Dean flipped through the dossiers on the monster's victims.

"Any of these people still in the morgue?" he asked Vi brusquely, tapping his fingers against the edge of the manilla folder. "I wanna get a closer look at these puncture wounds. Something about 'em bothers me."

"I . . . the most recent victim, Earl Woodson, should still be there. They only did the autopsy yesterday."

"You any good with computers?"

Vi shrugged and looked over Sam's shoulder at the city police's website. "I can hack my way around a firewall about as good as your average college dropout."

Dean frowned. "What I mean is, do you think you can do a better job than Sasquatch over here."

"Oh . . . Uh, probably not."

"Great. Just great. Okay, Sam, you stay here, see if you can't find the Slayer-nappers' vehicle. We'll take Vi's car, go review the autopsy results." Dropping the Impala keys onto the table, the hunter headed for the front door.

"Uh, dude, aren't you forgetting something?"

"What, Sam?"

Sam flinched a little at the venom in his brother's voice. "Don't you wanna grab your suit first, before you go?"

It took a second for his words to sink in. Then Dean blinked, and a trace of the anger faded from his eyes. "Right. Gimme a second to get changed, Vi, and then we'll be ready to go."

* * *

**November 2nd, 2008, Sunnydale, California, 12:20 p.m.**

Shortly after midnight, Faith left the cemetery. She scrambled back up on her Harley and drove to Sunnydale's sole twenty-four hour Walgreens to pick up some antibiotic ointment and gauze. In the faint light of the parking lot, the Slayer bandaged her left arm from wrist to elbow, successfully hiding the cuts and the bruising. As she secured the end of the gauze, Faith made a few quick plans.

As soon as she could figure out how to make it work, she was going to arrange a drop-off from the blood bank at Spike's crypt. The vampire had been incredibly helpful at filling in some of the blanks for her. Besides, even with the pint or so he had taken out of her arm, he still looked like hell.

He wasn't her friend, not by a long shot – when Faith had finished her questions and unchained him, Spike had hesitated for a brief moment before leaping out of his chair and attempting to go for her throat. He collapsed to the ground, howling in pain, and the Slayer stepped carefully over his prone body on her way out.

And yet, there was something there. In the colder, more reasoning part of her mind, Faith knew that for all intents and purposes, this Spike was her enemy. But she had trouble seeing him in such an awful state. Hence the planned blood drop off.

She sat on her motorcycle with her right leg looped over the seat and scrolled through her text messages. It was far too soon for Wesley to have gotten back to her with any information about the Winchesters, but Faith couldn't keep herself from hoping. He had not texted her all evening; however, there were several messages from Buffy, Jack, Oz, and even Willow.

Oz's was short and simple, a quick thanks for encouraging the Dingoes to come back to their hometown roots for one more gig. Faith declined to open the other messages. She could deal with them in the morning. Right now, her whole body felt achy and sluggish. In that moment, she would have traded this motorbike and whatever bestie relationship with Buffy that Spike had been describing earlier for a five minute conversation with Dean.

Accepting that it was hopeless, Faith tried each of the three phone numbers that she had for him in rapid succession. Each one led her to an automated disconnect message from the phone company.

"Dean, where are you?" she asked the night sky, which was too obscured by smog for any stars to shine through. "Could really use that journal of your dad's right now."

As she fired up the motorcycle and slowly, reluctantly, started back towards her apartment, Faith couldn't fight the feeling that if only she could talk to Dean, everything would make sense. A quick talk with him, and she could figure this out, find her way out of this town that shouldn't exist and back to St. Augustine.

St. Augustine. That was it. She had been in Florida before, helping out . . . who? Vi. Vi. She had been helping Vi with a series of disappearances. But who had been disappearing?

The sudden breakthrough was enough to distract the Slayer from the curving road ahead. Instead of making the right-hand turn, she veered left, straight into the opposite lane and oncoming traffic. A truck horn blared angrily, startling Faith from her reverie with an unpleasant jolt. She wrenched her handlebars to the right in an attempt to correct her course.

But it was too late. The front wheel of Faith's motorcycle collided with the grill of a semi-truck, and the Slayer was thrown up and onto the hood. For an instant, she balanced on the hood, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the smooth steel, and then she lost her grip. Faith slid over the front of the grill, her body crashing to the asphalt and bouncing as the truck's nine pairs of tires ran across her shins, her thighs, her stomach, her chest. At last, the final set of tires passed over her pelvis with a horrible cracking sound, her head slamming backwards into the concrete from the impact.

Her vision fading in and out, Faith lay on the highway, unable to move. Instinctively, the Slayer knew that she was bleeding out. Some kind of fluid was trickling down her throat, running into her lungs and making it almost impossible to breathe. She coughed and spluttered, but that only temporarily relieved the drowning sensation.

 _So this is how it ends,_ she thought with what little energy remained to her, followed by, _What a crappy way to go. Not even some badass Big Bad. Just a damn motorcycle._

Both femurs broken, pelvis crushed, brachial artery ruptured, a significant dent at the base of her skull, Faith Lehane finally lay still and waited to die.

* * *

**November 2nd, 2008, City Morgue, St. Augustine, Florida, 9:00 p.m.**

"Taceant colloquia. Effugiat risus. Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae," Dean read off the inscription on the morgue walls carefully, waiting with Vi for a morgue attendant to come to the front desk. They had rang the bell more than a minute ago, and he was looking for anything to distract himself from the terrible urgency burning at the back of his mind.

At Vi's raised eyebrow, he continued, "It means, 'Let conversation cease. Let laughter flee. Here is the place where death delights to help the living.'"

Violet's eyebrows crept up even further to her hairline. "You speak Latin?" she asked in surprise. "I mean, more than the usual spells and exorcisms and things? I thought only Watchers learned the archaic languages."

The hunter folded his arms across his stomach and leaned his hip against the counter. He had the urge to ring the bell a second time, but he resisted the temptation. "That's the problem with most of you Slayers."

"What?"

"You outsource all your dead languages. Nah," Dean added after a beat of uncomfortable silence, "Sam's the Latin expert, not me. But I've been in enough autopsy rooms to know that quote. It's not that uncommon, especially in the bigger cities or university hospitals on the East Coast."

"Quote? Who said it?"

"Uh . . . I can't remember his name. Some Italian physician in the 1700s. He was big on anatomy – Second or third time, I saw those words, I asked the doc what they meant. Kept asking until I ran across someone who actually knew the answer." Warming to his subject, the hunter said, "You know, there's actually a couple different translations of the last part. Some say 'death delights to help the living;' others translate it as 'death rejoices to teach those who live.'"

"Oh . . . ."

With a creak of its hinges, the door behind the front desk opened, and a short, balding man in maroon scrubs stepped out. "How can I help you?" he asked with a significant glance towards the clock.

Dean reached inside his suit jacket for his FBI badge. "Hi, I'm Agent Morrison from the Tallahassee field office. This is Agent Curie, one of our trainees. I've been recently assigned to the Woodson case."

"Huh." The attendant squinted suspiciously at the pair of them. "We don't have a pathologist on duty – the night shift doesn't come on until midnight. You should probably come back in the morning."

"Sorry," said Dean with a tight smile. "Working on a deadline, gotta report back to my boss. All we need's a quick external and a copy of the finished autopsy report."

With a long-suffering sigh, the man at the desk gave in. "All right. But only because I know you feds, and it's too late tonight to deal with a giant federal pain in the ass. Follow me."

Grumbling under his breath, the morgue attendant led the way along a grimy, dingy corridor to a set of tall swinging double doors, their metal surfaces flaking with red paint at the bottoms. Above the doors was printed the same inscription from the front office. This time, however, the words were written in English instead of Latin.

"Let conversation cease. Let laughter flee. Here is the place where death delights to help the living," Dean repeated the invocation in a quiet voice.

Unimpressed, the attendant pushed open the swinging doors and crossed the bare concrete floor of the autopsy suite to the shiny cooler door on the other side of the room. He stepped into the freezer and wheeled out a wrapped body on a squeaking gurney. "Here's Earl Woodson."

Moving quickly to get this over with, he unzipped the body bag from head to feet, then shoved the open flap off to the side. "You got five minutes," he conceded begrudgingly.

The hunter found a box of black nitrile gloves on a table near the door and grabbed two larges. "And a copy of the autopsy report," he said, tugging the gloves on over his ring.

"Please," tacked on Vi with an attempt at an ingratiating smile.

"Right. I'll step out and print that off for you. Don't . . . don't touch anything while I'm gone."

"You got it, chief," saluted Dean as he walked around the corpse, making mental notes. Earl Woodson had been a pretty big guy in his early thirties with a pretty significant farmer's tan. Even accounting for the tan, he was far too pale. The purplish red livor mortis was almost entirely absent from his body, which made sense in the circumstances of exsanguination – there had been no blood left to pool.

As soon as the doors swung closed behind the morgue attendant, Dean reached down and turned each of the dead man's hands over. "Not really any defensive wounds to speak of. But look at this," he indicated two thin circular red lines around Woodson's wrists. "Somebody tied him up."

"But no defensive wounds, you said. So that means . . .?"

"Either he knew his attacker, or it took him by surprise. And going off of what happened to you today, I'd say it was the second one." The hunter released Woodson's forearm and moved to the head of the gurney. "Ahh. Here we go." He twisted the stiff neck to the left to get a better look at the reddened wound halfway between clavicle and chin. It had roughly the same diameter as a ballpoint pen.

The autopsy suite doors creaked open again. "I thought I told you not to touch anything," spluttered the morgue attendant in exasperation. He had a small stack of papers in his hands.

"Sorry," replied the hunter, blatantly unrepentant. "Did they trace the trajectory of this wound, see where it led?"

"It's in the report. If I remember correctly, it went into his external jugular vein. Why? Does that mean anything?"

"Maybe." Dean took the report in gloved hands and flicked through the pages. He'd have to do a more thorough job later. Right now, while he had the body, he needed to cover a few main bases. "Tox screen come back yet?"

"Stapled to the last page."

"Thanks. Anything stick out?"

"Wasn't much blood for the tox screen, but there was something odd in the vitreous fluid."

"Vitreous . . .?" asked Vi.

"The fluid in the eyeball, ma'am."

The Slayer winced, imagining how those samples must be collected. "Ouch."

Dean scanned the final page of the report and the tox screen results. "Can you translate this for me? 'High levels of endogenous beta-endorphin and N,N-dimethyltryptamine.' What's that in plain English?"

"Beta-endorphin is an neurotransmitter produced by the body. It has anywhere from fifteen to thirty times the potency of morphine."

"And the other one?"

"N,N-DMT is a psychedelic."

"So what you're saying is, this guy was seeing pink elephants, and he couldn't feel any pain."

"That would be correct. It's interesting . . ."

"What is?"

"In the last six months, we've had seven or so people turn up like this – no blood, sky-high levels of beta-endorphin and N,N-DMT. The pathologists can't agree on how the killer is getting the endorphins so high in these people. DMT you can administer through injection. But chemicals produced by the victims' own bodies? That's a little harder to explain. Guess that's why the city finally decided to call in you boys in suits."

With a tight smile, the hunter pulled off his gloves and tossed them into a trashcan. He tucked the autopsy report into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "Thanks for your time. Agent Curie, I think we've got enough for the moment. We may come back in the morning if we have more questions."

Vi didn't speak until they were back outside in the parking lot, heading for her car. "So . . . analgesics and hallucinogens. That mean anything to you?"

"It might." Dean withdrew his journal from his suit pocket and opened it to the list he had made earlier. In the halo of pale yellow light from the light pole directly overhead, he added three things:

_External jugular_

_No pain_

_Seeing things_

_"_ Let me think out loud for a second. We've got blood loss, a hole in the external jugular – just the one hole, people dying without pain while seeing things, and blue. You say you saw blue before you got jumped?"

"Yeah," said Vi slowly, not quite understanding what he was getting at. "The room kinda glowed blue a little bit. I thought it was someone with one of those high-powered flashlights or something."

Everything clicked. "Oh, frak." The hunter grabbed his cell phone and hurriedly dialed a number. "Hey, Sam? I think I've got an idea of what we're going up against. Yeah, that's right. No, you're not going to like it. We're gonna need a couple of silver knives and one more thing. Lamb's blood, and lots of it."


	65. Paradise City, pt 5

* * *

Just when Faith thought that the pain couldn't get any worse, the blackness behind her eyelids overwhelmed her. The Slayer fell forward into welcome oblivion, but the respite it promised was brief. Soon, sensation came flooding back.

This time, thankfully, both the panic and agony had dissipated, leaving behind only aching confusion. She was standing up, her feet braced against a smooth hardwood floor. Something had jimmy-rigged her arms up and above her head and chained them together at the wrists to what felt like an old pipe. Rust flecking off the pipe dug into her palms and the backs of her hands.

The Slayer's world snapped itself back into place like a dislocated shoulder being jammed back into the socket. Her eyelashes fluttered as she opened her eyes a fraction to take in her surroundings. She was in some unkempt industrial building, with broken-out windows and gaping holes in the wall opposite her. It was freezing, too. Goosebumps had erupted all along her arms, and her head swam. Faith didn't think she'd ever been so nauseated before.

Footsteps crossed the room from behind her, and slowly the figure of her captor came into view. It was a woman, roughly five-eight, maybe a hundred and forty pounds, wearing jeans and a black tank top. Thick black tattoos zigzagged and spiraled from her forehead all the way down to her fingers. She approached the Slayer, humming something in a minor key, the notes soft and haunting.

A cool hand brushed along the outside of Faith's neck and smoothed out the skin. "Rest now," said the woman in a not-unpleasant voice. "Just rest."

Just beyond the Slayer's field of vision, plastic packaging crackled as it was torn open. The hand returned to her neck, and then there came a sharp pinch as a needle pierced her skin.

"Nnngh," Faith groaned involuntarily and then instantly regretted it. Recognizing that she might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, she opened her eyes wide. The Slayer tried for a snarl, but it came out more as a gasp, "Let . . . me . . . go."

"Shhhh." The tattooed woman took half a step backwards and raised the free hand that wasn't stabilizing the IV port she had just inserted. "Too soon." Electric blue smoke blossomed out from her fingertips, wrapping itself around Faith's temples. "Sleep, my dear. You must sleep."

"No . . . I can't." The Slayer thrashed against her bonds and lifted her boot in a feeble attempt to kick her captor. "No . . . Got to . . . Got to . . . to . . ." But the words faded as the smoke sunk its claws into her and dragged Faith back into the darkness once more.

* * *

"Ma'am? Ma'am, can you hear me? If you can hear me, open your eyes."

Oh, G-d. Everything hurt as though she'd been hurled through a woodchopper and then chunked into a sausage grinder, just for good measure. Faith opened her eyes to a sterile hospital room and an overly concerned medical resident. For about thirty seconds, she simply stared at him as her brain struggled to override the torrent of incoming neurons all screaming, "Pain! Pain! Pain!" and listen to the other messages being sent in from higher aspects of her cortex.

Three of those higher messages came in at the same time. The Slayer remembered her motorcycle colliding with an eighteen-wheeler. She remembered the tattooed woman who had jabbed a needle into her neck. And finally, Faith realized that she was once again back at Sunnydale General.

This last thought silenced all the pain neurons mid-scream. Her face froze as she debated punching this resident in the nose, ripping her IVs out, and making a break for it. But ultimately, there was no point. She was trapped, trapped in this dream and trapped in this hospital, and, judging by the amount of bandages and casts plastered all over her body, she was trapped in this bed. Bloody hell.

Blinking to get rid of the sudden spot of dust in her eye, Faith glanced up from her bandages to the resident, a young brunette woman who looked like she could use another cup of coffee. "Yeah?" she croaked.

"Can you tell me your full name?"

"Faith Lehane."

"Good. And where are we?"

"Sunnydale General Hospital." To the Slayer's relief, her voice only sounded moderately sullen.

"Good, good. And, one more thing, what's the date today?"

"Uh . . . November third, maybe?" Faith guessed, going by the natural light streaming in through the window.

"Very close. It's actually the fourth. I'm not sure if you remember, but you were in an accident about thirty-six hours ago."

"The motorcycle."

"Yes. You suffered significant fractures to your legs, pelvis, and ribs, as well as lacerating your spleen. You were in surgery for almost seven hours, and for a while there, it was very touch and go. You did not wake up in recovery, and so they transferred you here to the ICU. I have been covering your case for the last twelve hours, and this is the first time you have been this lucid."

Faith's mouth went dry. "What happened before?"

The resident frowned. "Let's just say that my attending was concerned you would hurt yourself from thrashing about. We were all relieved when you were safely taken off the ventilator earlier this morning."

"How long are you going to keep me here, Doctor . . .?"

"Dr. Lisbon. And it's not entirely decided. You were very badly hurt in that accident, Ms. Lehane. You'll probably be here for the next week at least. But, as always, it will depend on how well you recover."

A entire week in Sunnydale General, and Faith might as well ask the doctor for admission papers to an insane asylum. She blinked again to buy some time.

"You've had quite a few visitors," said Dr. Lisbon more cheerfully. "You can see them, if you like."

"Why the hell not?" grumbled Faith.

"Good," smiled the doctor. "I'll let them in."

"Wait –"

The other woman paused, her hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"

Faith swallowed her embarrassment along with her pride. "Could you pull my blanket up, first?"

"I'm sorry, of course." Returning to the bed, Dr. Lisbon drew Faith's blanket up from where it had pooled in her lap, all the way over her hospital gown, and tucked it briskly and efficiently beneath her chin. "Better?" she asked, a knowing look in her hazel eyes.

"Much. Thanks."

"Anytime. If your visitors prove too much, you can always call your nurse. They're usually pretty good about turfing away the excess company."

The Slayer managed a genuine smile this time. "Thanks."

* * *

Hardly had the door closed behind Dr. Lisbon before it was swinging back open, and a veritable crowd of people bustled into the hospital room. Had Faith been able to move her legs, she would have drawn up into a ball and cowered against the headboard. As it was, all she could do was wait, exposed and vulnerable, as her bed was surrounded by a herd of visitors.

"Faith, oh my God, you had us so worried!" Wide-eyed and wounded, Buffy spoke first, pushing her way through the others to come stand at the side of Faith's bed, reaching under the covers for her left hand.

"Did I?" wondered the younger Slayer sardonically, unable to help herself.

"We were all really scared." This from Willow, holding hands with the blonde woman from two nights before. That must be Tara.

"They were," echoed Tara. She seemed calmer than the others, less frenetic. Faith appreciated that.

"You know, when I always said you were going to wreck that Harley someday – "

"Xander," hissed Buffy, Willow, Tara, and Anya in concert.

"Easy, guys, let me finish. You know, Faith, when I always said you were going to wreck that Harley someday, it was a joke. I didn't mean for you to actually go and do it. Look, here, I brought you flowers."

Faith watched in shock as Xander set a bouquet of hothouse flowers with an attached 'Get Well Soon' helium balloon on the hospital bed tray table. That settled it. She was definitely living in Backwards land. "Thanks," she managed at last, grateful for the scratchiness in her voice which gave her an excuse not to say much. "How . . . er, how long have you guys been here?"

"Buffy's been here all night," said Willow. "Waiting for you to wake up."

"Well . . ." Buffy looked down at the toes of her platform-heeled boots. "Angel was here waiting, too. And Jack's been here all the time, except for when he has work. And Oz came by yesterday," she added helpfully.

Deciding to stick with neutral responses, Faith replied, "That was kind of him."

"Huh." Xander snorted. "Considering how much you guys pay them to come play at the Bronze, it was really the least he could do."

"Do you remember what happened?" asked Anya with great interest. "I've never heard of you crashing your bike before."

Faith attempted to shrug, but it hurt too much, and she ended up wincing instead. "I dunno. It was late, I was tired, . . . must not have been paying enough attention. Wesley come by?"

"Actually, yeah," answered Buffy, frowning in thought. "He was the first one of us to get here, after. Did you know he's still your emergency contact? I would have thought you'd changed that to Jack – or me."

"Guess I must've forgot. He didn't miss class or anything, did he?"

"No," said Buffy slowly. "But he did drop by again last night and this morning on his way to the school. I thought that was a little odd."

"Have you _met_ Wesley?" demanded Xander rhetorically. "He's always a little odd."

"Good point."

They stayed for another fifteen minutes before trickling out one by one with enthusiastically sincere goodbyes that made Faith feel as if she'd just been dowsed in extra sticky syrup. She couldn't quite get her head around this, the idea that other-Faith had been on comfortably joking terms with Buffy's friends. In some cases, she could see it making sense – take Tara, for example. But Faith had always found Anya's constant talking to be obnoxious, and she'd rather take a Silkwood shower than be alone in a room with either Willow or Xander for more than five minutes.

Buffy was the last to go, closing the door carefully behind the others and then turning to look back at Faith. "Hey. Can I talk to you for a second?"

Faith swallowed over the lump in her throat. "Shoot."

"Thanks." The slender blonde perched on the edge of a plastic visitor's chair and gave Faith her best attempt at a hard stare. "Don't take this the wrong way, Faith, but is everything okay? Besides you being in the hospital and everything," she added hastily as the other woman opened her mouth to make a sarcastic comment. "I mean . . . you weren't answering my texts at all the day before your accident, and Jack says you were completely ignoring him, too. Is there something I should know about?"

"Everything's fine," lied the brunette Slayer easily. "Five by five, B."

"Right . . ." Buffy smiled, but she looked confused and a little bit hurt. "Faith, are you and Jack doing okay?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because your employees said that you left the Bronze a little before ten, and your motorcycle crash wasn't reported until after midnight. That leaves two hours. Where were you? According to Jack, you didn't go home. Were you out patrolling? I told you that I'd cover everything that night."

Grateful that her injuries from the wreck had completely obscured or obliterated the knife marks from her little tête-à-tête with Spike, Faith obeyed her gut instinct and lied a second time. "I was feeling like crap. Thought I was coming down with a cold or the flu or something. Stopped by the pharmacy to pick up something over the counter. Mighta stopped by somewhere else for a beer or something. Honestly, Buffy, it's all kinda blurred right now."

Still unconvinced, the older woman scooted her chair forward a few inches. "Faith . . . it's okay to tell me. We all make mistakes. You've been around for most of mine. Remember that time Willow cast a spell so that I thought I was in love with Spike? Eugh." Buffy shuddered. "Faith, if something's happened, if you did something, please tell me. Let me help you fix it before it destroys you and Jack."

"What are you going on about?"

"I didn't want to say it out loud, but you're scaring me, Faith. Did you . . . did you cheat on Jack? Is that why you're not talking to him?"

If Buffy's face had not been so sincerely concerned, Faith would have slapped her, broken ribs or no broken ribs, pounding headache or no pounding headache. The friendliness disappeared from her voice. "What are you saying, B?" she asked, barely louder than a whisper.

"Faith, you and Jack have an amazing thing going on. Really. He's, like, the best guy that's ever happened to you. But I know you, Faith. I know you can sabotage yourself sometimes – like with Xander, like with Robin."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please don't make me point it out for you. When Xander got really into you, you cheated on him with some drifter in a leather jacket who transferred into the high school for a month or two. You told me, remember? And then when you and Robin had been together for six weeks, you took off for the weekend with Angel's friend Gunn. And now you're not talking to Jack, and Wesley's been dropping by twice a day . . ."

Buffy inhaled sharply. "At first, I didn't think anything of it. Even though he hasn't been either of ours' Watcher in years, you two've got that weird sparring thing of yours going, and you still act like Watcher and Slayer. So when Wesley was the one who called me about the accident, no big flashy warning bells went off. Back before Giles retired to his British Museum, if I'd been in the hospital, Giles wouldn't have left until I was out of the woods – and he'd've visited and brought inappropriately large amounts of chocolate."

"So why are you spazzing now?"

"Because I texted Jack asking about how you were doing, and he had no idea you were even in the hospital. That's when I put it together that Wesley must be your emergency contact. And then you wake up, and you don't ask for Jack. You ask for Wes. So I'm kinda stuck in wandering land here, Faith. Are you cheating on Jack? With Wesley?"

"No."

"Faith, you've got to tell me the truth," pleaded Buffy. "Please."

Her chest hurt like somebody's gone to town on her broken ribs with a newly studded set of brass knuckles. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"Of course I believe you," Buffy hastily amended. "Just, promise me that you're telling the truth?"

Unable to truly vouch for other-Faith's actions, the Slayer nevertheless pressed ahead. "I swear to you that I have never hooked up with Wesley – or cheated on Jack. There, you happy?"

"I'm sorry to have asked," apologized the other woman. "I should have trusted you. I'm sorry – it's just, Jack sounded frantic over the phone earlier when he heard about your crash, and the fact that he hadn't been able to get ahold of you. Why were you ignoring your phone? It couldn't have been just because you thought you were coming down with something."

"One of my little cousins back in Boston got diagnosed with leukemia," improvised Faith, silently apologizing to the make-believe cousin she had just confined to a hospital. Hey, if she had to be stuck in one . . . her imaginary extended family members might as well be bed-bound, too.

"Oh." Buffy looked even more guilty, if that were possible. "Oh, Faith, that's awful." Her face crumpled. "I'm so sorry. I've been such a terrible friend the last few weeks – what with Angel and everything. I had no idea about your cousin. Is there anything I can do?"

"You can let me get a little more sleep." But Faith said it kindly, with a much happier smile than she actually felt. "Thanks for stopping by, Buffy. It really means a lot."

"You're welcome," answered Buffy on autopilot, although she still looked upset. "I . . . I guess I'll check in on you later tonight, then."

Faith winked at her. "It's a date."

* * *

Not long past three in the afternoon, someone knocked on her hospital room door.

"Come in."

A tall, heavily muscled blond guy, six foot three if he was an inch, pushed open the door and walked into the room. "Hey, babe, how're you doing?" he asked with a conciliatory grin as he sat down on the side of her bed. The giant leaned forward and hugged Faith gently. "You had me so worried," he said, taking her face between his pawlike hands and gazing deep into her eyes.

The Slayer had been steeling herself for this moment. "Hi, Jack," she mumbled, muting the volume on the television remote. Why watch Jerry Springer when you could live it?

"God, Faith, don't ever do that again. For a while there, I thought I was going to lose you."

"Yeah, not a huge fan of motorcycle crashes myself."

Offended, he released her and drew back. "How can you be making jokes so soon?"

"I dunno." Faith looked down at her blanket awkwardly. "Guess all the breaks must've missed my funny bone."

"Seriously?"

"What? That was funny," she defended herself. "Dean would have laughed."

Jack blinked, confused. "Who's Dean, sweetheart?"

"Uh . . . one of the others managers at work."

"Have I met him before?"

"No, probably not. He's pretty new."

Giving up this line of conversation as a hopeless cause, Jack changed the subject. "What did the doctors say, babe? How long're you in for?"

"A week, give or take."

"Wow." He whistled. "That's . . .a while. Guess I'll just have to bring you in flowers every day. Looks like someone beat me to it today . . ."

"Oh. Those're from Xander."

The gigantic blond man frowned. It made him less attractive, despite his artfully chiseled chin. "Xander's bringing you flowers? What's up with that?"

"You jealous?" Faith teased.

"Of course not, honey. It's just a little unexpected, that's all. Did he say why he brought them?"

"I think he feels guilty about always giving me a hard time about the Harley."

"Ahh." Jack's face fell even further. "About that. They towed her to a mechanic, and I'm sorry, Faith, but she's totaled. Good thing we got that insurance on her when we did. Still, I doubt they'll pay enough for us to replace her."

"It's okay. Not like I could drive for a while anyway."

"Yeah." He reached for the remote. "I've got about half an hour before I've got to get back to the music store. Shall we see what's on the TV?"

* * *

After Jack left, Faith gave up on finding something decent to watch on the television and tried to fall asleep. There wasn't much else to do. She drifted in and out of dreams, waking when her nurse came in to check on her. Around seven p.m., the hospital door opened for another time, and the visitor she had been waiting all day for finally appeared.

"You know, if you wanted to skip our next training session so badly, all you had to do was ask," drawled Wesley Wyndham-Pryce as he entered the room, wearing neatly tailored corduroy trousers and a dark brown blazer, his messenger bag over one shoulder.

"Hey." Faith attempted to push herself up in bed and groaned. "Too soon."

"Here. Allow me." The Watcher fixed her pillows so that she had plenty of back support and was sitting upright. "How are you feeling?"

"Like sh-t."

"Going off of your X-rays, I'd say that sounds about right."

"They're pretty nasty, huh?"

"Nasty is putting it mildly. Even with your . . . abilities, I'd be shocked if they let you leave here anytime in the next two weeks."

"Damn it, Wes, that's not exactly what I was wanting to hear."

Wesley took the chair that Buffy had been occupying earlier and withdrew a pile of essays from his messenger bag. "Faith, if I told you exactly what you wanted to hear, I wouldn't be much of a Watcher now, would I?"

"Buffy says you aren't my Watcher," Faith said quietly, keeping a close watch on the man's face. "Says you haven't been for a while now."

"Of course I haven't." He flicked on the lamp beside the bed and made a giant swathe with his red pen through some poor freshman's opening sentence. "But it makes it simpler."

"Makes what simpler?" asked the Slayer with a touch of pique. Had Buffy's crazy-weird guess actually been right? Was other-Faith legit hooking up with Wes? Not that Faith could blame her. From what she'd seen of Jack, he was nice and all, but there was a little something missing between them. He didn't intrigue her. Not the way that Wesley did.

The former Watcher made a pretense of looking around the room for Faith's medical chart. "How hard did you hit your head?"

"I – I, that's not it . . ." Frustration and distress crept into the Slayer's voice, and she could have killed herself for it. This was not the time to be vulnerable, not when she was playing such a high-stakes game blindfolded and with one hand tied behind her back.

"Are you all right?" Wes smoothed out the edges of his papers. "Is there something you would like to talk about, Faith?"

"I . . . I . . . Wes, I don't remember anything."

He set the papers aside and regarded her. "You have my full attention. What do you mean?"

"A couple of days ago, I woke up from a nap, and I didn't know where I was. Nothing made sense, and I couldn't remember anything. Nothing past the very beginning of '99, right after the Council sent you over to be our Watcher. I've lost seven years of my memory, Wes," Faith continued, growing more comfortable with her deceit. "I don't remember dating Xander or defeating the First Evil or when Angel and Buffy got back together. When Jack walked in, I didn't have a clue who he was – just pieced it together."

"Did you tell anyone else?" probed the Watcher gently.

"What? No, no one else has a clue. At least – I don't think they do. I think I can be a pretty convincing liar, when I have to be. I didn't want to tell anyone," she admitted, fiddling with the edges of her blanket.

"Have you spoken with your doctor about it?"

"No."

"Would you like for me to?"

"I dunno, Wes. Can you . . . Can you tell me why you're my emergency contact with the hospital? That threw Buffy for a loop. Kinda surprised me, too. Why's it you, not Buffy or my boyfriend?"

His expression tensed, and his mouth turned down at the corners. "I'm not sure that it's my place to say."

"Dude. Apparently the only two people who knew about the whole thing were you and me, and considering that my brain's decided to make like Anastasia right now and forget everything, I think you're going to have to tell me."

"All right." Wesley closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them. "I have been your emergency contact at this hospital since you were eighteen and asked me to drive you here so that you might have an abortion."

For fifteen impossibly long seconds, Faith forgot how to speak. "What?" she demanded. "What?"

It hadn't even been her baby, she reminded herself. It was other-Faith's pregnancy, not hers. But it still seemed so damn pathetic. One of the few things that Faith had always been proud of was that she stayed on top on contraceptives and protection. No condoms, no sex. That was the way she did things.

"I had only known you for a short while." The Watcher was over-enunciating everything, speaking so slowly and carefully that Faith wanted to yell for him to hurry it up. She couldn't bear having this dragged out. "You came to my apartment in the middle of the night and told me that you were in trouble, and you didn't have enough cash to get yourself out of it."

"Why did I come to you? Why not Giles or Buffy or someone?"

The look he gave her was almost pitying. "Because you didn't want any of them to find out."

"And I thought _you_ could keep a secret?"

"Well, you threatened to emasculate me if I ever breathed a word of it to anyone, and I think you found my squeak of terror to be very convincing."

"I forgot . . . you did used to squeak. Did I tell you who the father was?"

"No, and I didn't ask."

"So what happened?"

"I took you to the hospital the next morning and waited in the car while you went in and made the appointment. Two days later, I drove you back and stayed in the waiting room while you had the procedure."

"Did I ever say why I wanted an abortion?"

Wesley smiled at her, a little sadly. "You told me that you would never bring a kid into this world and do to him or her what your parents did to you."

Faith raised her eyebrows in shock. "I said _that_? To _you_? I hardly knew you."

"Well, I was fronting you a good few hundred dollars in cash. I suppose you felt some sort of explanation was merited."

"So that's how we became . . . friends?"

"Of a sort. I believe that's how you decided I wasn't a total waste of overly expensive education and space."

She could see it now. A deep secret like that between them, of course she would feel some sort of connection with him. And if he kept that secret, honoring her trust, which apparently he had, it made sense that she still trusted him. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" she asked after another moment's silence.

With an easy shrug, Wesley returned to grading his papers. "Because it was your private business, and I respected that. Besides," he added dryly, "you threatened to turn me into a eunuch. By the way, I made some calls in the last few days, and I think I found a contact number for those acquaintances of yours."

"The Winchesters?"

"Mmhmm." Wes nodded. "I was also going to bring you some yoghurt, but then I reflected that the nurses might not look too kindly on that. So you'll just have to settle for the phone number."

"What, no chocolates or flowers?" teased the Slayer.

"It would appear that someone already has the flowers covered. As for chocolates, I'll buy you some when you get out. How's that?"

"Five by five, Wes. Five by five. Now, do you have that number?"

Wesley dug in the various pockets of his messenger bag for a while before he found it. "Aha. There you are." He passed over a tiny scrap of paper with ten very important digits on it: 7-8-5-5-5-5-0-1-7-9. "According to the man I talked to – grumpy fellow, he was - anyway, that number is for one Dean Winchester."

Faith held the piece of paper in both hands and couldn't help but grin. "Wes, you're a saint. If I could move right now, I'd kiss you."

"See that you don't," said Wes as he scrawled a large B- across the top of one essay. "We'd have a devil of a time explaining it."

* * *

**November 2nd, 2008, St. Augustine, Florida, 10:15 p.m.**

Sam leaned back in his kitchen chair and stared up at his brother. "Let me get this straight – you think the thing that attacked Faith is a djinn?"

"I'm ninety-nine percent sure, yeah." Dean stopped pacing the tile of Violet's kitchen long enough to glare at his brother's laptop. "Which could be good, 'cuz it means that she's probably still alive. But on the other hand, if the djinn sticks to its pattern, he only keeps 'em for forty-eight hours before killing 'em. And there's no guarantee that that pattern's gonna hold. We've gotta find her, Sam. Any luck while we were gone?"

"There's not much to go on. I hacked into the traffic cameras for the areas around both the factory where the girls were taken and the one where Vi was dropped, but the only car that fits the time profile was a black Chevy Suburban. You have any idea how many black Chevy Suburbans are registered in St. Augustine?"

"No, but I gotta feeling you're about to tell me," the older hunter grumbled to himself.

"Yeah, Dean, real mature. Anyways, it's over a hundred, and that's not including the out-of-state vehicles driven in by the tourist crowd."

"So, basically, what you're saying is that we're screwed."

"Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that, but, basically, yeah."

"Hey, guys?" said Vi tentatively from the kitchen doorway. "I have an idea that might help us find Faith."

"What?" demanded Dean, nearing the end of his tether.

The red-haired Slayer took a deep breath and stepped over to the kitchen table, an old, musty leather-bound book clutched to her chest. "A year and a half ago, I used to do a lot of work with a Wicca squad up in New York. I picked up quite a few things. Have you . . . Have you considered trying magic?"


	66. Paradise City, pt 6

****

* * *

"I know a great locating spell," Vi continued in a rush, spreading the ancient book open on the table and flipping through it to find the specific page she was looking for.

"Why didn't you mention that earlier?" asked Dean.

"I didn't think of it earlier," said Vi defensively. "I was busy following you two around. Besides, I was still a little shaken from getting lobbed over the head. Remember?"

"Okay, okay, sorry. What's the deal about this spell?"

"It's fairly easy to cast." The Slayer turned a final page and smoothed out the text's dog-eared corners. "Got it. Yeah, this should be very doable. We'll just need a bit of amethyst crystal and a green candle, which I should have in my trunk."

Dean rocked back on his heels. "You're a _witch_? I thought you were a Slayer."

"I am a Slayer." Vi rolled her eyes. "I'm a Slayer, and I've also learned a thing or two from the Wicca. Besides, aren't you two Boy Scouts forgetting your own motto? Always be prepared?"

"Yeah," Sam filled in the awkward silence. "We were never Boy Scouts."

"Oh." The Slayer looked disappointed. "Well, anyway, I think I've got everything that we need, except for a map of St. Augustine"

His disgust relenting a fraction, Dean admitted begrudgingly, "We've got a map in the car. Anything else you need?"

Vi shook her head. "No, I don't think so. That should be it."

"All right, then. I'll get you the map, and then, Sam, you two can work this locator spell. I'm going to go get us some lamb's blood, that way we're ready to go."

The Slayer crinkled up her nose. "Where are you going to find lamb's blood at this hour?"

Dean grimaced. "You'd be surprised what I can find."

"Okay. Oh, wait!"

"What?" The hunter turned in the doorway to look back at her. "What?"

"We need something of Faith's, something to help concentrate the spell."

"She left her bag here, didn't she? Get some hair out of her hairbrush or something. Geez." Dean rolled his eyes so hard that it hurt. "You Slayers aren't always the best at initiative, are you?"

Vi opened her mouth to fire back a retort. Before she could say anything, Sam grabbed his older brother by the arm and hauled him towards the door. "Cool it, Dean," he hissed, nudging the front door open with his shoulder and tugging Dean to the car. "This's the best shot that we got, okay? It wouldn't kill you to be polite."

Grumbling something unintelligible, Dean popped open the glove box and rifled through his collection of maps. Finally, his fingers closed on the right one. "Take this," he growled, slamming the box closed again. "Let me know what you guys find out. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Of course. Just . . . Be safe, Dean, okay? I'm starting to get a little worried about you."

Unimpressed, the hunter rolled up the passenger side window and coaxed his baby's engine back to life. As he drove away, he mumbled to himself, "It's not me we should be worrying about."

* * *

"Right." Sam walked back into the kitchen to find that Vi had cleared the kitchen table and turned it into a makeshift altar, sketching a quick pentagram in what appeared to be green kid's sidewalk chalk.

At his raised eyebrow, she hastily explained, "It was my nephew's." After naming the four cardinal directions and pointing them out to herself, Vi placed the map of St. Augustine on the table in the proper orientation. She set a fat Honey Dew Melon Yankee candle to the north edge of the map and a deck of cards-sized chunk of amethyst crystal on the west edge.

"Still your nephew?"

"Actually, the candle is my sister's, and the amethyst crystal belonged to me. I went through a geode-crazy phase in high school. Okay. I'm gonna start this now. Probably best if we don't talk until it's finished."

In Sam's absence, Vi had threaded a leather cord through a plain silver ring, twisting bits of long, brunette hair around the ring. Now, she lit the honey dew candle with a match and picked up the ring by the cord. Slowly, she chanted, "Pendulum guide me, pendulum lead me. Help me to find that which I seek. Good fortune is seeking me; as I will so mote it be."

She turned to the map and lifted the cord so that the ring dangled in the center of old-town St. Augustine. "High and mighty spirit force, art thou here to be my guide?" Vi began moving her hand in slow circles, the ring sweeping across the printed streets in a wide arc. "Good fortune is seeking me," she repeated. "As I will so mote it be."

Suddenly, the ring swung out to the side, independent of Violet's hand. She followed the tug of the ring, allowing it to pull the cord from east to west. The ring lowered itself closer to the map as it passed over King Street, then Cedar Street, finally coming to a rest at a point halfway along Desoto Place, just outside of the old town.

With her free hand, Vi uncapped a black ballpoint pen and drew a small 'X' at the spot indicated by the ring. Then she dropped the cord to the table and blew out the candle. Her face was pale, and sweat dripped off her forehead. "Gotcha," she murmured, and then she slumped forward in her chair, passing out with her cheek pressed against the map.

Sam rose to his feet and peered over the unconscious girl at the 'X'. He pulled up a computer map of the same area on SearchtheWeb and slowly narrowed down the location of the 'X' until he had an address. 450 Desoto Place. If this worked out, Dean would throw a party. In the meantime . . .

"Vi. Hey, wake up. Come on, Vi." Taking the girl by the shoulders, Sam shook her gingerly. "You did a good job but now we gotta go."

"Waffles? Oh, that was a bad idea." Groaning, Vi cradled her head in her hands. "Why are there three of you, Sam?"

"You're seeing triple?" Sam recoiled. "Has that ever happened before?"

Vi pushed herself off the table. "Only when I tried to work a spell after Buffy karate-chopped the Seed of Wonder and hobbled magic for over a year. That was worse than this, actually. I was seeing things in quadruplicate."

"Can I get you anything?"

"Glass of water?" The Slayer leaned backwards in her chair, breathing deeply. "It's like a sauna in here." She fanned herself weakly. "You feel that?"

Sam hunted through the kitchen cabinets in search of a clean glass, which he then filled beneath the tap. "Pretty sure that's only you," he said, handing her the water. "You okay?"

"Will be." Vi drank half the glass in one gulp. "It's just . . . It's harder when you're looking for people. And this, this was harder than most. Felt like wading through a tar pit. Whatever thing's got her, it's done at least some preliminary warding."

"And you could fight your way through it?" Sam ran himself his own glass of water. "I'm impressed."

"It wasn't very good warding," said Vi. She finished her glass and held it out. "More like somebody knew half of the basics and never learned the other half. Refill?"

"Sure. We should call Dean."

Accepting the second glass of water, the Slayer massaged her temples with her free hand. "Great idea. Can we wait until I stop seeing double, though?"

"Nope." Sam picked the girl up by her armpits and set her on her feet. "Double's an improvement from triple. Let's go."

* * *

**November 4th, 2008, Sunnydale, California, 8:30 p.m.**

"Can I ask you a question?"

Wesley stopped muttering irritably at the current essay on the chopping block and surveyed the Slayer in her hospital bed. "I believe you just did. Still, I'm willing to play. Your questions can't be worse than this infernal rubbish."

"That bad, huh?"

"Why did I ever think this was a decent career path?" mourned the Watcher. "And why did I think that American secondary schools taught even the most basic rudiments of grammar?"

"You're an intellectual idealist, Wes, that's why. And you were terribly sheltered as a child from the horrible truths of the mediocrity of most educational systems."

He smiled wryly and turned the page on the most recently offensive paper. "Thank you for that reminder. Now, what question did you have?"

Dinnertime had come and gone while they had sat there for the last hour, Wesley grading papers and Faith alternating between staring at the phone number in her hands and channel surfing. She hadn't yet worked up the courage to ask the Watcher for his cell phone, for that would mean actually making the call. When Faith's nurse popped her head in with a tray of bland hospital food, they amicably ended up splitting the meal in half. Wes ate the broccoli and the questionable looking slice of turkey while Faith polished off the mashed potatoes and the orange juice. "It's a couple of questions, actually."

"I would expect nothing less. Oh, for the love of mercy, does this person not employ a spell-checker? I'm going to have to dock them at least one letter grade based on the misspelling of 'feudal' alone. Ehem. Sorry about that. Your questions, Faith?"

Faith reflected that this was much easier than blackmailing Spike with fresh blood. "Are we friends?"

"I suppose so, yes."

"You suppose so? What kinda crap answer is that, Wesley?"

With a light raise of his shoulders, the Watcher added another note to the wide margins of the essay. "Well," he said cautiously, "it rather depends on one's definition of friend. Certainly, we train together, and we have fought alongside each other to save the world on multiple occasions."

"But lemme guess – we don't spend time together socially."

"Not as such, no."

"Why not?"

Striking through nearly an entire paragraph of text, Wesley hesitated a moment before responding. "It's complicated, I'm afraid."

"Isn't everything?"

He nodded in her direction. "Point. Fact is, Faith, this amnesia of yours seems to have wrought almost a change in your personality – and yet you aren't quite as you were when you were eighteen. As a general rule, neither of us really seeks out the company of the other."

"Why not? You're like the most interesting person around here."

"I doubt Buffy or your boyfriend would appreciate that comment. Nor would my fiancée, I imagine."

"Virginia."

"Yes."

"Why aren't you with her tonight? Why are you here?" Without pausing for breath, the Slayer continued, "Did . . . Have . . . Have we ever . . . Did you and I . . . "

"I think I know what you are trying to ask. No, Faith, we have never done anything . . . unprofessional."

It was like picking a scab, like scratching a terrible itch. Faith knew that she would regret this later, but right now her curiosity was all-consuming. She had to know the answer to this question. She couldn't ask her Wes, would never be able to ask him, but she could ask this one. "Did you ever want to? Do something unprofessional? With me, I mean?"

Wesley turned another page. "That's quite a few questions, Faith. And I'm not entirely sure that I feel comfortable answering them."

"So that's a yes?" The Slayer couldn't help grinning. She had always wondered. And now, she knew.

"Leave it alone, Faith." The reprimand was fairly mild.

"But –"

"Leave it," repeated the Watcher, more seriously this time, even as the tips of his ears reddened. "Leave it, Faith. There are some doors it does no one any good to walk down."

Faith could respect that. She didn't have to like it, but she could respect it. "Mind if I borrow your phone for a second, make that call?"

"Be my guest." Wesley dropped his iPhone into her lap. "May I ask a question of my own?"

"Go for it."

"What are you going to say to this hunter acquaintance of yours?"

The Slayer paused, halfway through dialing out the numbers. "I dunno," she said honestly. "Guess I'll figure that out if he answers."

* * *

**November 2nd, 2008, 450 Delmonte Pl., St. Augustine, Florida, 11:45 p.m.**

The black Impala purred softly as she came to a halt beside Violet's dusty Subaru, parked in front of an abandoned warehouse. Dean cut the engine and stepped out of his car, moving quietly to the trunk. Sam and Vi joined him just in time to watch the hunter open a jar of dark red liquid and dip the blade of a curved silver knife into it.

"Lamb's blood?" confirmed Sam.

"Yeah. You wouldn't believe what I had to go through to find it . . . Good thing today wasn't Sunday."

"You didn't kill a sheep, did you?" asked Vi, afraid of the answer.

"No," replied Dean shortly. He laid the drying knife on top of a folded brown paper bag and began preparing a second dagger. "You two pretty sure that this is place?"

"It can't hurt to look. And we've got to start looking somewhere, Dean."

The hunter handed his brother the second knife. "Okay."

"Besides," added Violet. "We drove around earlier – there's a black Suburban parked on the other side of the building. Tell him, Sam."

"She's right."

"Okay," said Dean a second time, dipping a third knife, this one longer and with a more sharply serrated edge, into the jar of lamb's blood. He passed Vi the first knife and screwed the lid back onto the jar. "This is firstly a salvage mission, got it? We find Faith, we get her out of there, and if we run into the djinn on the way, we gank it and send it to Hell – but Faith comes first."

"We hear you, Dean."

"All right, then. Let's do this – be as quiet as you can. And stick together."

Long silver knife in one hand, flashlight in the other, Dean led the way around the corner of the abandoned warehouse to a decrepit-looking side door. He tried the handle. When it gave way, he held a finger up to his lips in a gesture for further silence. Easing the door open, the hunter slipped into the dark shadows of a loading bay. Violet followed close at his heels, with Sam bringing up the rear.

The three hunters came to the end of the loading bay. They scrambled up a set of chipped and broken concrete steps and crept through another door into a desolate hallway. Despite his brother's words, Sam had already made up his mind. As soon as they found Faith alive, he was going to leave the others to find the djinn. Somebody needed to take care of it, and he had a gut feeling that Dean was going to be a little too preoccupied.

Something creaked on the floorboards above, and the three froze. Catching Dean's eye, Sam pointed at himself and the hall around them, and then to Dean and Vi and the ceiling. Dean pondered this for a brief second and then nodded. He grabbed Vi by the elbow and drew her after him, following the burnt-out Exit signs in hopes that they would lead him to a stairwell. Eventually, one did, and hunter and Slayer began ascending to the second floor together.

Sam canvassed the ground floor of the warehouse, sweeping the beam of his flashlight into every corner. All the while, he listened for more noises above and below. He had been searching alone for five minutes when he heard someone yell upstairs. He knew that shout, knew it even when he was drugged or unconscious. That was Dean, and Dean was six or seven steps beyond pissed. Abandoning his search, the hunter started running for the closest stairway.

* * *

"Hey, this's Dean. Leave me a message with your name and number and the reason that you called, and I'll call you back."

Faith dropped the cell phone into her blanketed lap and frowned at it.

"That's the third time that you've called," observed Wesley from his chair, almost finished with his stack of papers. "Why didn't you just leave a voicemail the first time?"

The Slayer shrugged. It was too complicated to to share, and frankly, she wasn't sure she understood all of it herself. "I don't know what to say," she proffered by way of explanation.

"So you called him three times in fifteen minutes. Is that really better?"

"Hey, at least that carries a sense of urgency, yeah?"

Wes opened his mouth to respond and then closed it again as the ground suddenly began to shake beneath them. He dropped his paperwork to the floor and held onto the seat of his chair.

Clinging onto the rails of her hospital bed, Faith scrunched her eyes tight. She hate earthquakes. Just another reason why she had been so eager to get away from California once the opportunity presented itself. "Ungh," she protested, her stomach lurching uncomfortably. "And to think I'd finally gotten over the nausea."

"There was nothing on the news this morning about an expected earthquake."

"Huh. What do you think it means, Wes?"

The Watcher retrieved his students' essays and smoothed out the top piece of paper. "Nothing good," he said darkly, a deep line appearing between his eyebrows. "Nothing good."

* * *

Dean charged up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Blood was rushing in his ears, mixed with a curious blend of despair and hope. His emotions were poised on the edge of a precipice, and they could so easily swing either way, into ecstatic relief or murderous rage. It all depended on what they found on the second floor of this building.

"Wait up," panted Vi behind him. "Shouldn't we be going more slowly? In case it hears us."

"If it was gonna hear us, it would have already heard us." The hunter pushed open the door at the top of the stairway and stepped out into a large, dimly lit room that occupied the majority of the second story.

In the middle of the room, chained by her arms to an old water pipe, was an incredibly pale brunette woman. Faith. Her gray tank top was drenched in sweat, and she was mumbling in her sleep. A female djinn was adjusting the IV catheter in the left side of Faith's neck, turning the stopcock on a fluids bag connected to the IV tubing, half-full of dark red blood. She glanced up as hunter and Slayer burst into the room.

"Get away from her," snarled Dean, shining his flashlight directly into the djinn's eyes. They glowed blue.

"And why would I do that?" demanded the djinn, lifting the bag of blood up to her lips. "I know who you are, Dean Winchester. You are a murderer. You killed my brother. Why should I not kill this woman?" She opened a second stopcock at the base of the bag and took a long, slow drink. The djinn smiled, crimson staining her lips and teeth.

"Because," said Dean slowly, edging further into the middle of the room, "if you know who I am, then you know I'm going to stop you."

The djinn tossed the IV bag to the floor. "Do your worst," she mocked. "I am not afraid of you."

Dean snapped his wrist and sent a his knife flying across the room. It caught the djinn a little lower than he had intended, slamming into her abdomen. She collapsed to her knees with a groan of pain. The hunter snatched Vi's silver dagger from her and charged towards the djinn. Before she could get back up on her feet, he grabbed her brown hair at the base of her skull and jerked her head to one side before slitting her throat. For good measure, Dean shoved the knife between her fourth and fifth ribs, just to the left of her sternum.

The hunter watched the life drain out of the djinn's blue eyes, and then he dropped her to the ground, heedless of the blood covering his hands and torso. Dean sprinted the last few feet to the pipe where the Slayer was chained up. He wrapped a blood-smeared arm around her waist, taking some of the weight off of her wrists while he sawed through the rope tying her to the water pipe with his silver knife.

Faith collapsed into his arms, a hundred and thirty pounds of dead weight. Her eyelids flickered but did not open as he carefully laid her down on the concrete and knelt over her.

"Is she okay?" wondered Vi, her voice nervous and high-pitched. "Can she hear us?"

Ignoring the younger Slayer, Dean felt for the pulses at Faith's wrists and the non-injured side of her neck. All three were beating feebly and fast. He hurriedly pulled his jacket off to cut a swathe of fabric from the hem of his plaid shirt. After he wadded this up into a ball, the hunter ripped the tape off the IV line and pulled it out of her external jugular, compressing the wound with the torn piece of fabric to stop the bleeding.

His hand trembled slightly, but his voice remained steady as he tapped her fairly hard on the cheek with his open palm. "Faith, hey, wake up. Come on, girl. Wake up. I just need you to do this one thing for me. Wake up."

"It's not working."

"Give her a second. Come on, Faith. Open your eyes."

At that moment, Sam came dashing into the room from the same stairway that Dean and Vi had climbed earlier. He skidded to a halt when he saw the corpse of the djinn, drenched in blood, and his brother straddling the too-still form of the Vampire Slayer. "Dean –"

Dean didn't bother looking up from his work. "Not just now, Sammy. Kinda busy." Like Faith, he was breathing a little bit too fast. He took in the dark hollows beneath her eyes, the sheen of sweat covering her from forehead on down, the pallor of her chapped lips. "Wake up, girl. Come on." He shook her by the shoulders with his free hand. "You can do this. You can do this."

"Do we need to take her to the hospital?"

"Not if we can wake her up. Faith feels the way about hospitals that you feel about clowns." The hunter leaned down further over the Slayer to whisper in her ear. "Come on, Faith. I know it's hard. I know it's everything you ever thought you wanted. But I need you to let go. Let go of that, and come back." He sat back on his heels and looked to his brother. "You happen to bring that taser in from the car?"

"What? No! You two are crazy!" Vi attempted to step in and push Dean away from Faith. At his intimidating glare, she retreated.

"You think that would help?" mused Sam seriously. "I thought the spell usually dissipated when the djinn died."

"So did I," Dean grunted.

"You could always kiss her," said Vi with a touch of hysteria.

Sam and Dean didn't even dignify that remark with an eye-roll. Instead, the older hunter took one of Faith's hands in his, turning it over. He lined their fingertips up and then drove his nails into the space between her fingernails and the soft tissue beneath. Dean pressed harder and harder until the Slayer's eyes opened and she whimpered.

"Attagirl."

Wild-eyed, Faith got one good look at her surroundings and attempted to roll over onto her stomach.

"Hey. Hey, easy there." The hunter caught her shoulders and held her still as she panted for air. "You're gonna hurt yourself." Without turning around or looking back, Dean dug his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them behind him to Sam, trusting that his brother would make the catch. "Why don't you two go downstairs, get the cars started? We'll meet you down there in a minute."

"Yeah, sure, Dean. Come on, Vi."

Once they had disappeared down the stairwell, Faith pushed herself up on her elbows. "I'm gonna be sick," she moaned. "Oh, I'm gonna be sick."

"Can you walk?"

"I don't know. Everything's spinning. And . . . none of it makes much sense. Are you . . . are you the real Dean?" she asked fearfully.

Dean crouched back down to be at her level. "Faith."

The Slayer took her eyes off the floor and met his gaze. "Yeah?"

"What do you think?"

Faith exhaled all in a rush. "Oh, G-d, Dean. I'm sorry. It's just . . ."

He slipped one arm beneath her back and the other under her knees. "You're fine. No need to apologize." Dean lifted her and started making his way towards the stairs. The Slayer put a limp arm around his neck and closed her eyes.

"I swear, I think I'm gonna puke."

"Oh, yeah . . . That happens with djinn. Did I forget to mention that?"

"Nnngh."

"Must have slipped my mind." Dean began his slow descent down the stairs, balancing one elbow against the wall. "I'll set you down whenever, pull over whenever you want, just . . . promise me one thing."

"What?"

"Please don't throw up in my car."


	67. Paradise City, pt 7

**A/N:** Last chapter here, and then we've got a date with some angst. And some belated Christmas celebrations. Thanks to all of you readers for sticking around Faith and Dean this long! :)

* * *

**November 3rd, 2008, St. Augustine, Florida, 1:30 a.m.**

"Oh, G-d. Oh, G-d. Dean . . ."

"I gotcha." The hunter steered his car over onto the shoulder of the road. "Sam –"

"On it." Jumping out of the backseat, Sam pulled open the shotgun door and helped Faith out of the car, the bloodied strips of Dean's shirt still pressed to her neck. He supported her while she heaved until nothing but bile came up.

Faith wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and leaned against Sam while the world spun. "Thanks," she mumbled. "We're getting better at this."

"Third time's the charm."

Back inside the car, the Slayer slumped against the leather upholstery. "How much further?" she asked weakly.

"Five minutes, tops," answered Sam, closing the door and fastening his seatbelt. "Think you can make it?"

"Yeah. I would just really like to stop moving."

"Almost there," reassured Dean as he pressed his foot down harder against the gas pedal. "Then we'll get you onto something stationary."

Eyes shut tight, Faith nodded. She clung to the bottom of her seat with both hands while the hunter drove them the last few minutes back to Vi's house. When they arrived, she insisted on operating on her own steam. The Slayer wobbled on shaky legs towards the front door, Sam and Dean hovering six inches away on either side of her, just in case.

Once inside the house, she made a beeline straight for the shower. Faith turned the water to just shy of scalding and scrubbed frantically at her skin. The world still kept tilting a little unreliably, but at least her nausea was fading. While she was rinsing the shampoo out of her hair, someone knocked on the bathroom door.

"Yeah?"

It was Dean, his voice slightly muffled through the wood. "I've got your bag and stuff, if you want it."

"Door's unlocked."

Hinges creaked, and her duffel thudded against the linoleum floor as he dropped it. "You still feel like puking?"

"A bit."

"I sent Sam and Vi out for some stuff for when your stomach settles. Ginger ale, jello, that kinda thing. Couple years back, when we first ran into a djinn, it took a few days before I was back to eating like normal. Sleeping, either, for that matter. Speaking of which, there's not a lot of furniture here, but Vi said you could have first choice between her bed or one of the couches."

Faith uncapped a bottle of conditioner and squirted a quarter-sized dollop into her open palm. "I don't really want to go to sleep, Dean. Been doing enough of that this afternoon. Don't really see the need to go back there."

"Yeah. Know what you mean. Still, I think Vi's about to drop, so . . ."

"Couch's fine. She should keep her bed."

"Okay. See you when you get finished up."

"All right, then."

Despite her best intentions, Faith barely made it out of the shower and into a clean set of clothes before she was hit with overwhelming exhaustion. Kicking her duffel along the carpet in front of her, she stumbled over to the couch directly in front of the television and sat down. She stretched out on the faded floral upholstery and reached for the rust-colored blanket dangling over the back of the couch. Faith promised herself that she was just going to relax for a moment, but hardly had she closed her eyes when she was drifting off to dreamland.

* * *

Heart racing, drenched in sweat, the Slayer woke up to find that she had kicked her blanket onto the floor sometime in the night. The blinking clock on the old DVD player indicated that it was pushing three. In the dim illumination, Faith sat up and surveyed her surroundings. She had to remind herself twice that she wasn't in Sunnydale in order to get her heart rate down. Even then, it took catching sight of the gigantic curled-up form of Sam on the other couch for anything to sink in.

In an attempt to get ahold of herself, she headed to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on her face. Feeling at once much more exhausted and much more aware, she returned to the living room only to hear the gentle clink of glass on tile in the kitchen. Faith moved carefully on the balls of her feet, her fists raised at chest height. She could do this. She would be ready for anything.

Her hands fell to her sides when she stepped into the kitchen. There was no tattooed intruder here to drag her back into Opposite World. It was just Dean, who was for some reason sitting on the counter, his back against the upper cabinets, a half-empty fifth of whiskey dangling from his fingers. His eyes gleamed faintly in the darkness.

"Join me?"

Faith hopped up onto the false granite countertop. "You couldn't sleep either, huh?"

He held out the bottle of whiskey. "Want some?"

"Yeah, but I think it'd just make me throw up again."

"Fair point." Dean raised the whiskey to his lips and took a long pull.

"How long've you been working on that?"

The hunter shrugged, his shoulder bumping hers. "Dunno. Last hour, maybe?"

"Bad dreams?" At his silent nod, Faith continued, "I hear ya. Thanks for the rescue, by the way. I hadn't quite worked out exactly what was going on, and then I got hit by a motorcycle and laid up in Sunnydale General . . . It was gonna take me a while to get back in fighting shape."

"A motorcycle in Sunnydale?"

"Long story. You said . . . you said djinn are all 'a dream is a wish your heart makes,' right?"

He took another drink. "More or less."

"Huh." Faith glanced down at her hands. "Cause I've been thinking, and I'm not entirely sure what mine was. My wish, I mean. But, I think a lot of it had to do with B and me – we actually got along, apparently. I had this hunky record store owner cohabitating boyfriend. And Sunnydale was still standing, and Wesley was alive. You know, a few things that I wanted, or used to think I wanted. But I wasn't happy, not really."

"How come? Those all sound like pretty good things."

The Slayer frowned in concentration. "I'm not sure – not exactly. Maybe 'cuz it wasn't actually my life? Like, the Faith whose place I took wasn't one hundred percent the same Faith as me? Wes was pretty cool, but the rest of it? Not so much. The hunky boyfriend wasn't my hunky boyfriend. He was someone else's. Besides, you wouldn't even pick up your phone."

"You tried to call me?" he asked, his voice completely neutral.

"There was something batsh-t crazy going on. Of course I tried to call you. Now, come on. I showed you mine, so it's time for you to pay up and show me yours. What's got you up this early?"

Dean exhaled sharply. "Hell."

Neither truly shocked nor surprised, Faith leaned against him. "Oh. I thought you didn't remember anything . . . ?"

"That was then.  Now, I see it all the time," the hunter confessed, his lips inches away from the rim of the whiskey bottle. "See it, hear it, smell it. Dream about it almost every night. And sometimes," he swallowed, "sometimes the angels like to get all talky with me in my dreams. I know that they know – they're the ones who pulled me out, as Cass reminds me like every frigging time he wants something from me. But there's something different about them watching it happen inside my head, you know?"

"Gimme that." She tugged the whiskey out of his fingers and tilted her head backwards. "My turn." Faith chugged and chugged until her mouth, throat, and stomach were all one contiguous burning line. Then she passed the bottle back to Dean, swiping across her face with the back of one hand.

"What're you doing that for?"

"Because right now, it sounds like everything sucks. And if you're gonna get drunk, I'm getting drunk, too."

He sloshed the amber liquid around in its bottle. "Sounds good to me."

"Yeah . . . hey, Dean?"

"Uh huh?"

The Slayer reached for the alcohol and downed half of what was left. "You ever think about maybe wanting something more?"

"Something more than what, cheap whiskey?" Dean pulled the bottle away from her. "Easy there, champ. You keep going at it like that, and pretty soon it'll all be coming back up. Don't they teach you how to share in Slayer preschool?"

"I've been dry for almost six months. Six unbelievably crappy months. And I just took a Wonderland fall down memory lane. I deserve a drink."

He relinquished the whiskey. "Suit yourself. 'S long as you answer the question this time – something more than what?"

One hand closing around the cool glass, the Slayer gestured at the empty space between them with her other hand. "Than this. You an' me."

Dean squashed the impulse to take the alcohol away from her again. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm back there in Sunnydale, in a setup that's better than anything I've ever had, with a stable relationship and Buffy on my side, and all the worst things I've done never happened – no murder, no betrayal, no torture, no jail – and I should've been happy. I should've been g-ddamned thrilled. Instead, all I could think about was how I needed to talk to you. Like, I'm in a world that's the closest thing to perfect that I was ever gonna see, and it wasn't enough. Without you, it wasn't enough."

She finished off the whiskey and set the bottle down in the sink next to her. "And it got me thinking, both back there and then here, about this, about us. We never talk about it. We talk about everything else under the sun, but never that."

"Faith . . ." It was almost a plea. "Why're you bringing this up now?"

"Because the last eighteen months have been awful, and the world sucks a whole lot less when you're around. Because I'm tired of missing you and wondering what it's supposed to mean. Come on, Dean. You telling me that you don't feel it, too? That there isn't something here?"

The hunter pushed himself off the counter and backed a couple steps away. He just needed to create a little space right now. After taking a deep breath, he said, "You really wanna do this now? Aren't you still coming down off the . . . the . . ." He made a swirling gesture with both hands to represent the djinn's crazy town.

"Dean, we don't do this now, we never will."

He padded back and forth across the kitchen linoleum in his socks. "Really not the best time."

"I know. Never is."

"You want the truth?"

For the first time since broaching the subject, she broke eye contact. "That would be nice."

"Truth is . . . " said Dean, tossing common sense and caution to the wind. "The truth is I'm frigging terrified out of my frigging mind. This angel stuff . . . I don't know what it means, and I don't know if I can trust any of 'em. They're all on the war path about Sam – and, yeah, he's headed pretty far off the reservation – but I'm not sure how much of that is because he's working with Ruby and how much of that is because they're threatening him to manipulate me.

"And, you're . . . G-d, Faith, there's no one I'd rather have at my back, except for maybe Sam, sometimes, and you're sexy as hell. And, yeah, you're pretty much my only friend that isn't Sam or Bobby, and maybe sometimes . . . Maybe sometimes I wonder what exactly it is that we're doing, but I can't right now. With these angels hanging around everywhere, I can't have any more . . ."

"Any more hostages to fortune?" Faith supplied, watching him across the dark kitchen. Her stomach had started churning again, but she fancied that was just the unfortunate combination of djinn magic and inexpensive whiskey.

The hunter stopped pacing and folded his arms across his chest. "Yeah. I . . . I told you that they show up in my dreams, sometimes. And I'm worried about what they're gonna find there – not just Hell, but the other stuff. They're douchebags, and I don't want them to go after you the way they're threatening to go after Sam."

"I'm not learning exorcism from demons," she pointed out.

"Like I said, I'm not sure if that's why they're . . . you know. And I know that I can't protect you, from them or from the djinn or from anything else, but I gotta try, Faith. I gotta try."

Faith slid down from the countertop. "I understand." She opened the refrigerator. "Where's that jello you sent Sam to get?"

Relieved that the conversation was ending, Dean hurriedly replied, "He forgot. But he did get the ginger ale and the pie. Want me to pour you a glass?"

"Sure." The Slayer stepped back to give him room. "Just a small one, though. I should probably try to get more sleep or something."

He fumbled around in the cupboards until he found the one that he was looking for. The hunter got two glasses down and poured them almost to the brim with soda. "Cheers."

"You know," said Faith when she had drained half of her ginger ale. "Sam actually did a pretty good job."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Two outta three ain't bad."

"No," said Dean slowly, getting the impression that she was referring to something other than grocery runs. "That ain't bad at all."


	68. Recoil, pt 1

**December 24th, 2008, Cleveland, Ohio, 5:00 p.m.**

"Sticky tack or Scotch tape?"

"Huh?" Faith raised her head wearily off the red cushion on her broken-down couch. The upholstery was stained a dark maroon where her left cheek had been. Scrubbing at her mouth with one hand and the drool spot with the other, the Slayer looked up into the beaming face of Lily, who was waiting on her expectantly, various adhesive products in each hand.

"Which do you think will damage the walls less? Tape or sticky tack?"

She had been dreaming about her beach again, and she wished that she could return to its warm sands and welcoming sunshine. Anything was better than a cold Ohio winter. Not even dinner time, and it was dark outside already. Aware of Lily continuing to stare at her, Faith said, "I don't care, Lil. You two figure it out."

"We've tried!" called Becka from the kitchen, over the faint strains of Sinatra-esque Christmas music. She poked her head out into the hallway so that her voice carried better. "We're at an impasse. You've got to be the tie-breaker."

Seniors in college, and they still wanted her to act like their baby-sitter, sometimes. Well, that was okay. Truth be told, Faith didn't mind them decorating her entire apartment with crêpe paper and stringing white lights around the windows and putting up a sad little Christmas tree right out of Charlie Brown by the TV. It was far more than she would have done on her own. She took a second to actually give the matter some thought. "Tape, then," she decided as her stomach rumbled.

Lily's exultant expression fell. "Really?"

"Ha!" Becka punched the air and executed a five-second victory dance, complete with excessive shimmying and booty shaking. "Oh, and Faith, now that you're up, Dean rang earlier."

"He did?" Torn between dinner, a shower, and returning the call, Faith rolled her shoulders back several times to stretch them out.

"Yeah. You left your phone in the kitchen. I told him you'd call back."

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

The blonde Slayer slipped the sticky tack into her jeans and picked a new package of evergreen crêpe paper off the coffee table. "Because you put a note next to the phone saying that if we woke you up, you'd feed us to a dragon."

"We don't have a dragon."

"No," agreed Becka, "but we didn't feel like challenging your ingenuity. Plus, you kinda looked like you needed the sleep."

Faith couldn't argue with that. She  _had_  needed the sleep. They were three days into her grand plans to finally clear out Lake View cemetery of its persistent vampire infestation for once and for all. It sounded great on paper. In practice, however, it mostly meant that she ran around half the day and all night in the freezing cold and ended up thawing out her feet in a McDonald's around sunrise. At least the girls were on Christmas break and didn't have classes or work to figure out. Still, even with three Slayers and Robin, Faith was starting to have doubts about the Herculean task she'd set for herself.

With a sigh, she gave up on returning to her nap. "Robin call while I was out?" she asked, making her way to the kitchen. Like the living room, it had been attacked by the co-ed Christmas fairies, and Faith had to duck improvised streamers that drooped as they arched across the room, anchored to the cabinets on one side and the top of the window on the other.

"Not as such." While Faith had been sleeping, the girls had done more than decorate. Her kitchen table and every available countertop were fairly plastered with cooling racks and pale sugar cookies with golden-brown edges. A mixing bowl filled with pale green icing stood on the counter by the sink, and Becka stirred it briskly with a spatula.

Grabbing her phone, the Slayer whistled in appreciation. "You two are really getting into this Christmas thing."

"Someone has to." Becka shrugged and opened the oven. "This is the last batch. Hey, stop that," she added as the older woman reached for a cookie. "Those are for tomorrow. No sneaking."

"Seriously?" Faith replaced the cookie in consternation. "It's just one cookie, Beck."

"Yeah, but one cookie always leads to two cookies. Don't even try with me. I have younger brothers, and I've roomed with Lily the last four years –"

"I heard that!" came the shout from the living room.

"No duh, Sherlock!" Becka yelled back cheerfully. "You were supposed to. Anyway, Faith, you'll ruin your dinner," she said this last with a smirk.

"Whatever," grumbled Faith. "Look, I'm starving. Is there anything I can eat? Since you two've commandeered my house and my refrigerator."

Uncowed, the brunette set her cookie sheet on top of the stove and began lifting the cookies onto a half-empty cooling rack with a metal spatula. "You could try a Clif bar. Or just call Dean back. By the time you get off the phone, it'll be dinner time. I promise."

Sometimes, the Slayer really had no idea just who exactly was playing babysitter here. "Fine."

She retreated back to the relative peace and quiet of her bedroom. Even there, Faith had to shove a pile of clean clothes to the far side of the bed in order to have a place to sit and make her phone call.

"Good morning?" she said croakily when a click sounded at the other end of the line.

"Morning? It's like three in the afternoon – and I'm at least a time zone behind you. You party too hard last night or something?"

Faith sank back against her headboard and resisted the urge to climb beneath the covers and pull them up to her chin. If she did that, she'd fall asleep on the phone, and not even the long-dreamt-of prospect of getting caught up on her sleep was worth being mocked for that particular transgression. "Nah. Just doing a big clean-out of the cemeteries. Gotta finish this year's resolutions before I make new ones. How was the funeral?"

"It was . . . better-attended than I expected." Sam must have contributed something on the other line, for he added, "Better-attended than either of us expected, actually."

"Where're you headed to now?"

"Cheyenne, more or less. According to Sam, Ruby's got a lead for us."

She gave in to the seductive call of the her comforter, kicking off her sneakers before she scrambled under the thick duvet. "You don't sound too happy about that," she observed.

"Yeah," replied Dean shortly.

Taking the hint, she didn't mention the demon again. "How long's this lead gonna take you?"

"I don't have a clue. Why?"

"Beck and Lil are getting all Twelve Days of Christmassy around here. Thought maybe you and Sam'd like to come out, celebrate and stuff."

The hunter exhaled into the phone. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't think we're gonna be able to make it. Like I said, this lead's just outside of Cheyenne, and that's almost a two-day drive from your place. Besides, Christmas is tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Right. That's . . . my bad. You're welcome to swing by this way after – we can all ring in the New Year, celebrate Cleveland being slightly more fang-free, drink something decent for once. The three of us'll still be around."

"I'll talk to Sam."

"Okay." Confused by his curtness, Faith grimaced as a trace of uncertainty crept its way into her voice.

"What are you up to tonight?"

"Uh . . . Well, last night I got an Irish priest to consecrate a half-frozen over reservoir. Tonight? I'm not sure yet. Probably going to send Becka and Lily 'round all the main hang-out places, see if they can get anyone to squeal on where the Court of Miracles is in this one godforsaken boneyard. Robin and I've got a couple of nasty nests downtown to clean out. Nothing I can't handle."

"There anything you can't handle?"

"Malls on Black Friday? Although I don't know if that's a can't. More like a nonnegotiable 'won't.'"

"Ha. Sounds about right. I gotta go – we're stopping to fill up. Call you when this lead peters out?"

"You say that like you're convinced it will."

Dean snorted. "Well, that's cause they always do."

"See you for New Year's?"

"We'll try. Take care of yourself tonight, you hear me?"

"You got it."

"Hey – one last thing." For the first time in their entire conversation, he actually sounded like himself.

"Yeah?"

"Merry early Christmas, Faith."

"Thanks. Merry early Christmas, Dean."

* * *

**December 24th, 2008, Cleveland, Ohio, 8:00 p.m.**

After scarfing down a quick dinner – Becka's grandmother's famous enchiladas, no less, Faith opened her apartment door to Robin's all-too familiar scowl. The Watcher shook his head as he caught a glimpse of the lights and improvised streamers decorating her hallway.

"And here I thought you wouldn't recognize the Christmas spirit if it bit you in the ass," he teased and stepped back so that she had space to lock the front door.

"Very funny. How long did it take you to come up with that one?" Faith muttered in response, shoving her gloved hands into her pockets.

"Probably the thirty seconds it took you to get to the door." Robin clambered behind the wheel of his Ford Explorer and waited for her to get in. "Where'd you want to start tonight?"

The Slayer shrugged. "I thought we'd bust up that new nest down by the Settlers Landing Station."

Her former Watcher raised his eyebrows as he reversed out of the parking lot. "That all?"

"Well, it is Christmas Eve. And I didn't want to upset your wife too much."

He eyed her strangely, as though she had grown another head or a nice set of horns. "How thoughtful of you. You got any idea how many fangs in this nest?"

Faith smiled wolfishly. "Not a clue," she admitted. "That a problem?"

For some Watchers, it might have been, but Robin, like Faith, had had a complicated childhood. And like the so-called Dark Slayer, he could almost always use a good fight to relieve his tension. Slaying vampires did wonders for one's anger management.

"Nope," said Robin with a shake of his head. "As long as we make sure we clear out the whole nest and don't leave any stragglers behind . . ."

The Slayer's smile shifted until it was practically feral. "Aye-aye, captain."

* * *

**December 25th, 2008, Cleveland, Ohio, 6:00 a.m.**

She couldn't have said what it was exactly that woke her up, but long before the sun poked its head in through her window, Faith found herself wide awake and completely unable to fall back asleep again. After tossing and turning for a good fifteen minutes, she gave rest up as a lost cause. Mumbling half-hearted imprecations under her breath, she stumbled to the bathroom and took a quick shower, then wrapped her long brunette hair up in a towel to dry while she made her bed and hung up the mounds of clean clothes that had been sitting on the opposite side for far too long.

As she tidied things up, the Slayer kept an eye out for what might be termed an appropriate Christmas outfit. Despite, or perhaps because of, Robin's teasing yesterday, she wanted to celebrate this holiday right. Last Christmas, she had been moping in London, trying to wrap her head around the potential consequences of enlisting the Mayor to help her break Dean's deal. Even though Lily, Becka, and Andrew had come to visit her in Giles' old flat, Faith had not been able to let go of the fear of what lay ahead in just a few short months.

Now, with no one having any oncoming trips to Hell looming on the horizon, she could actually relax long enough to eat ridiculous amounts of Christmas dinner and even more ridiculous amounts of Christmas dessert. The Slayer hadn't quite decided which one she was looking forward to more – Christmas lunch at Becka's parents' or Christmas dinner with Lily's family. She had gone so far as to cancel all Vampire Slaying activity for this evening; everyone deserved a day off.

The heaps of clothing vanquished, Faith toweled off her hair. Lifting her arms above her head, she winced a little. There had been nine vamps in that nest last night, and while nine was a completely manageable number, she had still gotten tossed around a bit more than she would have preferred. At twenty-eight, her bruises didn't heal quite as quickly as they had when she was seventeen.

The Slayer pulled on a nicer pair of dark skinny jeans and an evergreen cashmere sweater, which had been a birthday present from Giles a couple years ago. She rifled through her dresser for a pair of thick socks for the walk across the cold kitchen linoleum. Her stomach was growling already, and there was a good chance Becka had left some of those Christmas tree sugar cookies unattended.

Just as she found what she was looking for, her phone went off on the desk at the opposite end of the room. Faith dropped the socks onto her bed and reached for the obnoxious piece of crappy electronics. One of these days, she really had to upgrade. The name on the caller ID was a bit of a surprise. She flipped the phone open in haste.

"Bit early, isn't it, Sam?"

"Faith." He was out of breath, as though he'd been running.

"What's going on?"

The hunter's voice cracked as he continued, "Faith, it's Dean. He's . . . There's been . . . The angels . . ." Sam sniffed wetly. "He's in the ICU, in Cheyenne Regional. He's . . . They've got him on a ventilator. I hate to ask, but can you . . ."

Everything flashed hot and then cold. Faith tugged her socks onto her feet and grabbed her backpack from off the weapons chest at the foot of her bed. "I'll be there in a few hours," she promised, shoving a few extra sets of clothing, a handful of stakes, and her ready-to-go toiletry kit into the top of the bag and then zipping it up. "On my way."

"Thanks." Thirteen hundred miles away, Sam exhaled in what might have been relief. Or it might have been a very manly sob. Faith wasn't sure it much mattered either way.

"What name've you got him under?"

"McGillicutty. Dean McGillicutty."

There was nothing else to say really, and so the Slayer flipped her phone shut and threw it into the pocket of her much-abused black peacoat. She grabbed a pair of boots from the floor of her closet and ran for the door and her car. She'd call Becka and Lily on the way to the airport and explain what was going on. They would understand. They had to.

On her way past the kitchen, Faith ducked in to snatch a Tupperware full of cookies from its resting place on the counter. Even if Christmas was canceled, at least she could still scarf down her dessert.

* * *

**December 25th, 2008, Cheyenne, Wyoming, 1:30 p.m.**

By the time she landed at Cheyenne Regional Airport, Faith had eaten nearly a dozen frosted sugar cookies. Admittedly, most of those had come up into the plane toilet when they hit turbulence on the way out of Denver, but she was trying not to think about that too hard.

After the Slayer's hurried trip to the lavatory, Verlene,the septuagenarian retiree from Sandusky who had sat next to her on all three flights, broke the wall of civilized pleasantries and asked her what was wrong. Faith explained in the barest strokes possible that a good friend was in the hospital, at which point Verlene summoned the flight attendant and purchased some of the hardest alcohol that the airline carried.

While the younger woman downed one bottle of Tito's to steady her nerves, she listened to endless stories about her seat mate's daughter, son-in-law, and three grandchildren who all lived on a ranch somewhere north of Cheyenne in a place called Chugwater. Now, as the plane touched down, the Slayer shoved the two empty mini-bottles into the seat back pocket in front of her.

"Have a mint, dear," said Verlene, offering a handful of red- and white-striped peppermints in her brightly manicured hand.

"Thank you," replied Faith a bit awkwardly, although she recognized the wisdom of the suggestion. The last thing she wanted was for anyone at the hospital to notice her breath smelling like vodka. She ripped the plastic off one of the mints and popped it into her mouth.

"Now, don't you worry about a thing," continued the older woman cheerfully as they stepped into the airplane aisle and Faith reached up above them to get down Verlene's carry-on, a large floral-printed monstrosity filled to the brim with neatly-wrapped presents for her grandchildren. "I'm sure Carl and Linda will be more than willing to drop you off at the hospital – definitely save you the cost of a taxicab. Which, by the way, are terribly difficult to find around here."

Mildly taken aback, the Slayer nodded in acquiescence. She got the impression that Verlene tended to pretty much do whatever she wanted, and that everyone went along because it made life easier. Very well. Faith's life could stand being a little easier right now.

Linda and Carl, the daughter and son-in-law, were waiting down at baggage claim, a six-year-old, a three-year-old, and an infant in tow. After nodding for Faith to pass the tote over to her son-in-low, Verlene greeted each of her family members with a giant hugs and kisses. Then she straightened up, and the doting grandmother was replaced by steel.

"This is Faith," she announced with another of her beaming smiles. "She's a good friend of mine, and we're going to give her a ride to the hospital, all right?"

The daughter, a tall, dark-haired woman in her late thirties, looked at Faith curiously. "Are you sick?" she asked in concern.

"Friend of mine is," Faith said curtly.

"Yes, and she's flown all the way from Ohio to see him, so let's not waste any more time, shall we?" pressed Verlene, her smile as wide as ever. "Carl, dear, where did you park the car?"

Before she knew it, the Slayer was crammed into the backseat of a minivan between the six-year-old girl and the three-year-old boy, both of whom were regarding her with blatant curiosity. It kind of freaked her out, and so Faith distracted them with the last few of Becka's sugar cookies. Anything to get rid of the staring.

The hospital was less than a mile and a half from the airport, and the five-minute drive passed by in a flash. Hardly had Faith distributed out her bribery when Carl was pulling up outside the hospital main entrance. The Slayer disentangled herself from seat belts, stuffed animals, and car seats and stooped over as she worked her way to the car door, which slid open automatically.

"Don't forget to let me know how it works out," admonished Verlene when the Slayer's boots hit the concrete drive. "I can send text messages, you know."

Faith nodded, incapable of saying anything else. Bile was creeping its way back up her esophagus. The tension that had been steadily building for the last eight hours was at an all-time high. If she didn't get her ass in gear and talk her way into that ICU, stat, she wasn't sure how much longer she could keep it together.

Thankfully, Verlene didn't press the issue. With a wink and the cheeriness that Faith was starting to miss already, she waved goodbye. The minivan door closed, and then Verlene and her blissful brood were gone.

Hands in her pockets, the Slayer strode in through the front door of the hospital and headed straight for the information desk. "I'm here to see Dean McGillicutty," she announced, stepping from side to side in an effort to control the shakiness in her knees. "I think he's still in the ICU. Can you point me there?"

The receptionist looked up at her coolly. "Just a moment, I'll look him up in our system. What did you say your name was?"

"Hope. Hope Lyonne. I'm his half-sister."

"Right. Well, we do have a Mr. McGillicutty in the ICU. If you take the South elevators up to the third floor, walk down the end of the hallway, and take a left, the ICU will be the first set of double doors on your right."

"You're a lifesaver," lied Faith. She was gone too quickly to hear the woman's response.

It took nearly all of the Vampire Slayer's not-insubstantial self-control not to run her way to the ICU. Instead, she sped-walked, digging her phone out of her pocket long enough to send a quick 'I made it' text message to Lily and Becka. The girls had been doing their best not to hound her with questions. In return, this was the least she could do.

Not soon enough, and yet far too soon, Faith was pushing through the double doors to the ICU. She walked down the hallway with purpose, glancing at the names on each door. Johnson. Thomas. DiFrancesco. Finally, near the end of the hall, McGillicutty. The Slayer took one deep breath and then brushed aside the curtain and stepped into the room.

Out of the corner of her eye, she was vaguely aware of Sam rising to his feet from a plastic chair on the far side of the room, but the majority of her attention was consumed by the hospital bed and the man lying on it, far too thin, far too pale, with darkened bruises all along his face and arms. She automatically took in the mechanical puffing of the ventilator, the breathing tube that ran down Dean's throat and into his trachea, the bags of IV fluids and morphine.

For a moment, Faith couldn't get any air around the sudden obstruction in her chest. He was too still. Dean should never be that still. She crossed the room and reached for his hand, her warm fingers closing around his cold ones, the plastic pulse oximeter a faint annoyance. Blinking rapidly, the Slayer squeezed his hand. Dean remained unresponsive.

She turned to look at Sam, who was watching her with red, puffy eyes. "How?" she demanded in a hoarse croak. Faith glanced back down and gently traced the outline of Dean's black eye with the fingertips of her free hand. "How did this happen?"


	69. Recoil, pt 2

"It's a long story. Here." Sam lifted an empty chair out of the far corner and walked it around the hospital bed to where Faith stood. "Why don't you sit?"

She sank unconsciously down onto the plastic seat. Her eyes stayed locked on Dean's worn and battered face. Not even his eyelids were moving. "Thanks," she said quietly as her stomach clenched and unclenched. The monster that lurked inside her lifted its head and sniffed the air. "How're you holding up?"

"Not good," admitted Sam, his voice more wet than either of them wanted to acknowledge. Running a hand through his mop of floppy hair, he returned to his own chair on the other side of the bed. "Uh . . . I guess it started not long after we hung up with you yesterday. When we got to the motel in Cheyenne, the angels were there waiting for us."

"Which ones?" Faith focused on plugging the information into carefully marked slots in her mind. If she organized it, if she figured out what it all might mean, then maybe she could do something about this burning urge to hit someone. At the very least, she'd know who it was most appropriate to hit.

"Cass, and this even bigger douchebag, goes by the name of Uriel."

"How'd they find you guys?"

He sighed. "I dunno. Some angel power, I guess. So they show up, demanding that Dean help them interrogate Alastair – that's the demon who –"

"The one who turned Dean into his personal pet project. Yeah, I know."

Sam gave her a sidelong glance. "He really does tell you everything, doesn't he?"

The Slayer shrugged. "I don't know. Does it matter?"

"Guess not." Sam looked away again. "Anyways, Dean and I started arguing with them, and they just poof! disappeared. Took Dean with 'em. So I called a friend of mine, who helped me track Dean down with magic – kinda like a more fiery version of the spell we tried with Violet last month when we were trying to locate you. By the time I got there, Alastair'd busted out of the angels' devils' trap like it was so much cardboard. He'd already knocked Dean unconscious, and he was trying to exorcise Cass. When I rushed through the door, he was too occupied with Cass to pay any attention to me – so I came up on him from behind and ganked him with the knife."

"And then?" prompted Faith, keeping her expression carefully blank. Something about that last bit had sounded ever so slightly fishy.

"Got Dean to the hospital. Didn't pass Go or collect two hundred dollars. He almost coded a couple of times before they realized he had an internal bleed – one of his broken ribs must have nicked an artery or something. They hauled him up to the O.R. and just brought him back about an hour ago."

"You see any of these angels since then?"

"Cass came by, a while earlier. Just after they brought Dean back down from surgery."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing useful," said Sam, genuinely pissed. "That he had no idea how it had happened, that he didn't have the authorization to heal Dean . . . I told him to take a hike and not to come back until he'd figured out how to draw a devils' trap right. It's not that damn hard." He looked up from his twisted hands in his lap, and his eyes met Faith's. "It's not that hard," he repeated, almost pleading. "We draw it all the time and get it right."

Faith scooted her chair forward a couple of inches and readjusted her grip on the unconscious man's hand. "Hey, if you're looking for someone to knock those winged douchebags down a peg, just say so. I'd be happy to oblige."

Sam rubbed at the back of his neck. "While that sounds tempting, there's at least two pretty good reasons why I shouldn't let you do that."

"And they are?"

"First off," started the hunter, with a nod in the direction of his older brother, "Dean'd kill me if I so much as let you take a swing a them. Second, we don't know anything that hurts them, so I'm not sure what you could do even if you tried."

Choosing to ignore the use of the word 'let,' the woman crossed her legs at the knee and fumbled in the top of her left boot for the stake she'd stashed there after getting through the TSA checkpoint back in Cleveland. She dropped the dangerously sharp ten-inch piece of wood into her lap and then reached into her coat pocket for a deck of cards.

"Well," she said more casually than she felt, setting the deck on top of the blankets near Dean's feet, "while we're waiting for your brother here to stop pulling a Sleeping Beauty, whaddya say to a quick round of Seven Card Stud? Loser buys dinner."

He blinked at her uncomprehendingly. "What?"

"It's gonna be a long couple of days. Might as well start in on the poker now. So, shall I deal first, or would you like the honors?"

* * *

**December 25th, 2008, Cheyenne, Wyoming, 6:00 p.m.**

Sam Winchester was not one to lie down and take what fate dealt out to him, but after losing four rounds of Seven Card Stud, three hands of War, and a vicious game of Egyptian Ratscrew that left him with scratched up hands and brought a nurse in to see what all the thumping and yelling was about, even he had to admit defeat. Mildly embarrassed, he stepped out of the room to go pick up some sandwiches downstairs in the cafeteria.

"Don't forget a diet Coke!" Faith called after his retreating back. She smirked as she returned her cards to their box, now almost falling apart. "And some pie, if they have any," she added.

His response was mumbled and a little profane. Oh, well. It wasn't the first time someone had told her to do something anatomically impossible. Still smirking, Faith tucked the cards into the top of her backpack.

"He's not as bad as you say he is," she observed aloud to the sleeping Dean. The Slayer stood and stretched her arms up and above her head. "Bit pedantic at War, and maybe a hair of a sore loser, but not bad. 'Course, I made sure to get some extra slapping in for you. Since you've had too much control to slap some sense into him yourself. Can't say that it'll do any good, but you won't be able to say that I didn't try."

Faith took a minute to stretch out her quadriceps, grabbing an ankle and bringing it up to her rear and leaning forward a little, then switching ankles and doing the same with her other leg. After a day spent sitting, whether on airplanes or in hospital chairs, it was good to get in some movement.

"You know," she commented, plopping herself back down onto her chair with less grace than was usual for a Slayer, "I'm starting to think that maybe the only thing more annoying than me being in the hospital is you being in the hospital. At least when it's me all johnny-gowned and intubated, I know how bad things are because I know how much like sh-t I feel."

The sound of the curtain moving caught her attention, and Faith sprang to her feet, ready with some quip for Sam about how talking to an unconscious hospital patient didn't count as talking to herself. But it wasn't Sam standing there behind her.

Instead, it was a man about five-foot ten, with scruffy dark hair and piercing blue eyes and a five o'clock shadow. He wore a rumpled suit and a tan trench coat. Faith looked him up and down in a brief second of confusion, and then it all clicked.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," the Slayer snarled, pleased to have a target for the brewing fury inside her. She moved to stand protectively between the angel and the hospital bed.

"Ah," said the being who had to be Castiel in a deep, emotionless voice. It creeped her the hell out. "You are Faith, the slayer of vampires. Dean has spoken of you."

Faith could hear the lack of capitals, and it pissed her off even further. "What the hell were you thinking?" she demanded, confident that the unconscious man was well and truly out of it, and as such, could not hear. "Asking him to step in there and give it up to the demon who made him his bitch?"

She would have busted Sam's balls already, but he was doing such a good mopey puppy dog act that she didn't have the heart for it. But this guy, the accountant in the trench coat with his glowing blue eyes, this self-proclaimed angel, well, she could go after him easily. The angry darkness within her almost purred at the chance to lash out, to draw blood, to spread the pain around.

"You think it was ill-advised?"

The Slayer couldn't get a bead on this guy, couldn't tell if he was actually clueless or just going for enigmatic. Either way, she didn't much care. Angel or higher being, or whatever the hell he was, he did not scare her. You had to get up much earlier in the morning to manage that. "No sh-t, Sherlock. You ask me, it makes you as dumb as a box of rocks. And those're pretty damn dumb."

"You, like Sam, do not believe Dean was strong enough to break Alastair?" Castiel phrased the question with confusion, tilting his head to one side and blinking at her.

Although she didn't buy that innocent act for a minute, Faith pocketed this new snippet of information. "Dean's the best hunter I've ever met," she said fiercely, her brown eyes snapping. "My book, you're the one who screwed the pooch. You're the one who was supposed to have his back when you told him to go play twenty questions with his, with his . . ."

Torn between the damning condemnation she longed to throw out and the need to preserve Dean's privacy, she hesitated. Finally, she decided that if Cass and the other feathery idiots upstairs had any idea what went on down below, he'd probably already come to the same conclusions that she had. "You made him play twenty question with his rapist, and you didn't have his back. You said you would protect him, and you didn't. You wrapped him all up in a pretty little bow and sent him off to face his worst nightmares.

"Look at him!" Faith gestured wildly to the man in the hospital bed, with IV lines and tubes running in and out of practically every orifice. "He almost died! What good's a stupid cutout guardian angel if all he does is drag you back to Hell? F-cking unbelievable."

"If you think his safety so important, why were you not here?" Somehow, the angel maintained his air of naivety. "Dean considers you a friend. By that reasoning, are you not also to blame for not being at his side?"

"Shut up," growled the Slayer, taking another step towards Castiel and away from the hospital bed. She stood taller and squared her shoulders, allowing menace to seep into every syllable. "Don't you dare try to lay this at my door. That would be like blaming Dean for the Twilight sh-t-show."

"I am not familiar with that name."

Faith tossed her head back and laughed without humor. "God, you're an idiot. Listen up, Twinkletoes. Sam told me that Dean didn't want to go in there. That he was afraid of who he'd be when he came out. If I'd been here, he wouldn't have gone in alone. And your little demon pal wouldn't've had a chance to get the drop on Dean."

"You would not have been allowed."

She could feel her stake, just inside the pocket of her peacoat, tapping against her hip. She had gotten it blessed in holy water, in preparation for clearing out Lake View. The Slayer had no idea if it would do anything to angels, but this conversation needed to end before she got too tempted and tried it. She wasn't entirely sure yet that the world wouldn't be a better place without heavenly interference.

Faith took another step forward, herding the angel closer and closer to the door. "Name's Faith, the Vampire Slayer. Look me up sometime. California DOJ's got a lovely folder, about six inches thick."

"I am sure that Heaven has more complete records than a DOJ. Whatever that is."

If Castiel didn't get his feathered ass out of the hospital room, she would not be held responsible for her actions. Maybe she couldn't take him, but damn, would she love to try. It had been that kind of day.

She laughed again, her voice ringing cold and hollow. "Do your homework, Feather Boy, and you'll find out who I am. I'm a Slayer. I'm a killer. I'm a sadist. And I don't take orders from so-called angels who make the people under their protection do their dirty work."

"You – "

But whatever he was going to say no longer mattered, for Faith had maneuvered him into the hallway. She pulled the door closed faster than you could say jackknife, opening it a fraction for one last passing shot. "Oh, and Castiel? Go f-ck yourself."

* * *

The triumph from her victory over the angel only lasted for the ten seconds it took Faith to turn around and look at her friend in the hospital bed. Her shoulders slumped as she watched his chest rise and fall slowly with the puffs of air from the ventilator. He was injured – horribly injured – and Castiel was the closest thing he had to a magic bullet cure right now. Despite what Sam had said earlier, maybe, if she asked nicely . . .

Faith inhaled deeply, swallowing her anger and her pride. She could heal faster than your average human, but she couldn't pass that healing ability on. The Slayer walked back over to the hospital room door.

Castiel was simply standing there, his eyebrows knit together in a frown of concentration, looking as if he hadn't quite decided on his next course of action. Huffing in frustration, Faith grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back into the room. Her touch drew the angel out of his reverie.

"While I have not had time to interrogate the California DOJ, I did ask a few questions of my brethren assigned to the Western United States," he said as the door closed once again behind them.

"Oh, really? What'd they have to say?"  _Don't get defensive, don't get defensive._ This angel set her teeth on edge, and it took all of Faith's self-control to prevent from snapping like a wild animal.

"That striking you down by blasting you from the inside out might be a bit precipitate at this moment. They say that you could be a useful force for good."

Crossing her arms tightly across her stomach, the Slayer moved again to make sure that she was standing solidly between Dean and this excessively-powered dimwit. "Kinda presumptuous of them, don't you think? Force, yes. Good, rarely. Useful, only when I want to be."

"I am not used to being spoken to this way," the angel said after a moment's silence. "I allow it only because you are concerned for Dean's condition." He glanced away to the side briefly and admitted, "I also am concerned. I . . . I do not understand how this has happened."

"Then why the hell don't you fix him?" The exclamation burst out of Faith without her realizing it. Dammit. And she had had such good intentions of pretending to play nice, this time.

Castiel looked up from the floor and fixed her with those uncomfortably clear blue eyes. "It is not allowed."

In a stark refusal to let that gaze pin her like some poor butterfly to a piece of cardboard, Faith shook her head, her chin moving from side to side mulishly. "No. That's not acceptable. You screwed up, you got Dean hurt, it's your job to heal him."

Again, he repeated, "It is not allowed."

"Get out of here, then." When the angel remained where he was, the Slayer raised her voice a fraction. "Get outta here," she growled, her right hand twitching as it rested against the pocket of her peacoat, only a few millimeters of fabric separating it from her consecrated stake.

For a few seconds, Castiel continued to stare at her as though she were a puzzle piece that did not fit in with all the rest. Then, without warning, he simply disappeared.

Knees shaking, the Slayer dropped into her chair. Once again, she reached out for Dean's hand. "I see why you didn't want me meeting him," she acknowledged to the sleeping hunter. "Although I'm not entirely sure who you were trying to protect – me, him, or you."

Faith pulled her cell phone out of her jeans pocket and began typing away. She sent the same three sentences to nearly everyone in her contacts list: Lily, Becka, Andrew, Robin, Vi, Giles, Angel, Spike, Amy, Willow - even Buffy and Xander.

_What do you know about fighting angels/messengers of the Powers that Be? Might have a higher being problem, not sure yet. Would rather be safe than sorry._

Although she wasn't expecting much, replies came pinging into her inbox before she had even finished sending her messages.

 _Which type of angels?_  inquired Giles.  _Cherubim, Seraphim, or Archangels?_

 _All of them,_ Faith sent back, and then hurried to reassure Becka and Lily that everything was fine in Cheyenne – for the present, and that they didn't need to drive out on some sort of rescue mission.

 _Be careful_ , was the instant response from Angel, followed by a  _Can't recall too much about vampires directly fighting the forces of Heaven, but I'll look into it._

The Slayer replied to each of her friends and sometimes-friends, disappointed that no one seemed to have any more knowledge than she did. Still, they all promised to hit the books or ask around, which was a far more magnanimous response than she would have expected. In a spare corner of her mind, she wondered aimlessly if their helpfulness was due to the Christmas holiday. She hoped that was all that it was, and not the over-excited imaginations of the Slayer grapevine working in her favor.

* * *

Faith remained lost in a bit of a brown study when the hospital room curtain was pushed aside, and Sam sidled back into the room, his arms laden with three white styrofoam leftover containers. "Any changes?" he asked, carefully placing the food on the end of the mattress. The hunter dragged his chair around the foot of the bed and over by Faith.

"No." She accepted the styrofoam box that he extended to her and popped open the lid to reveal a thick turkey sandwich with cheese, mustard, and all the vegetables on what looked like Texas toast and a bag of barbecue-flavored potato chips. "You got this in the cafeteria?"

Sam bit into his own matching sandwich. He seemed different from when he had left. More settled, perhaps. Chances were, the break from the hospital had been good for him. "Trust me. There wasn't anything there that you would've wanted to eat. Drove around in circles until I found somewhere that looked better."

"Pie?"

He nodded at the third container. "Pumpkin. Three slices." Sam's eyes slid from his sandwich to his brother. "Just in case."

She completely understood. Not wanting to ruin the first properly calm moment since his phone call that morning, the Slayer waited until she had devoured her dinner before she dropped the angel bomb. After she licked the last traces of barbecue powder off her fingers and cleaned her hands at the automatic alcohol dispenser on the wall, she said casually, "Your friend Castiel came by while you were out."

Eyes darkening, the hunter frowned. "What did Cass want?"

"I'm not entirely sure. I mostly just yelled at him. I . . . kinda needed someone to yell at," Faith confessed sheepishly.

A muscle twitched alongside Sam's jaw, and he crumpled his potato chip bag into a tight ball with one hand. "He still saying that this wasn't his fault and that he can't heal Dean?"

Faith saw through the forced casualness in the younger man's voice. "Something like that. I yelled at him some more, if that helps."

Reaching across her, he grabbed both empty sandwich boxes and tossed them into the trashcan near the foot of the hospital bed. "Kinda sorry I missed that."

"Yeah. You want pie now or later?"

Sam looked back and forth between the final styrofoam container and Dean's faintly fluttering eyelids. "Maybe we could wait a couple of hours? Play another round or two of cards first? You know, just in case . . ."

She didn't have the heart to tell him that even if Dean did make the shift from a hundred percent out of it to awake and chatty, the likelihood of the nurses allowing him to eat a slice of pie tonight was, well, to put it frankly, pretty damn unlikely. Then again, Sam probably knew that already.

"You sure you can handle losing again?" she teased instead, unzipping her backpack to hunt down her deck of cards.

The hunter tugged his chair closer to the edge of the bed. "Bring it," he drawled as she started shuffling. "Do your worst."

"Okay." Faith set the deck down on the blanket near Dean's left knee and gestured for Sam to cut it. "Just remember . . . when you're telling your brother about how I made you cry like a little girl, . . . you asked for this."


	70. Recoil, pt 3

**December 25th, 2008, Cheyenne, Wyoming, 11:00 p.m.**

Sam and Faith's vigil lasted another good three hours. After poker lost its allure, they gave in to the inevitable and polished off two out of the three slices of pumpkin pie, exchanging stories about Dean. Maybe, if he heard they were talking about him, he would open his eyes sooner. At least, that was Faith's justification.

She wasn't entirely sure Dean would have approved of her telling tales on him. But since it was a good way to pass the time, and since Sam appeared to cheer significantly with every nice anecdote about his brother, the Slayer didn't think it could do too much damage. Still, she was careful not to touch on anything too deep or personal.

With that in mind, she regaled Sam with a highly dramatic version of the Fourth of July years back when Dean had decided to help her chaperone a Slayerette lake trip at one of the girls' parents' vacation home. Faith made sure to emphasize Dean's good-naturedness in teaching her how to swim and his utter exasperation when a nasty batch of gastroenteritis broke out amongst the Slayerettes, bringing the weekend to a hasty end.

When Sam finished laughing at the idea of his brother having to deal with vomiting teenage girls in the backseat of his car, Faith decided to share a little more about the time she and Dean had spent in New Orleans. His curiosity about other aspects of that trip led to her talking in greater detail about Angel and Spike and some of the notable occurrences of their careers.

In return, the hunter had his own stories to tell. He started off fairly light, with a detailed explanation of the soaring heights and the extreme depths to which their recurrent prank war had alternatively risen and sunk. As the hour hand on the clock moved later and later, however, Sam grew both more serious and, occasionally, almost maudlin.

There had been a second incident with the Trickster, he admitted, stretching one of his long arms out across the bed for his brother's hand. Without taking his eyes off of Dean, Sam explained about the Mystery Spot in Florida last year and the endless, endless Tuesdays. Although he could have played some of the more ridiculous means of Dean's endless demises for laughs, he chose rather to focus on his frustration with the Trickster and the sense of terrible fear and inevitability that had lingered in the back of his mind ever since then.

"That's why I gotta kill Lilith, before she finishes breaking all the seals," he admitted, making eye-contact with Faith for the first time in almost fifteen minutes. "Not just to stop the Apocalypse, but because she . . . she killed him." The hunter rubbed a hand across his face awkwardly. "G-d, I don't know why I'm telling you all this. It's probably because this," he gestured to the hospital bed, "is all just a little too familiar for me. I'm . . . I'm tired of him getting hurt. It just needs to stop."

"Mmm," echoed Faith noncommittally. "Maybe you should lean back, try to get some sleep."

"Yeah, I guess." As a new idea struck him, Sam glanced at her oddly. "Hey, we've still got some of our stuff stashed at a motel room across town. Why don't you take the Impala and go crash on an actual bed? No need for both of us to have to sleep on these plastic chairs."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm good." The Slayer slumped further down in her chair and wriggled her shoulders from side to side until she found a position that was a hair more comfortable. She closed her eyes and listened to the soft huffing and puffing of the ventilator. "I've slept in far worse places," she said in a dry voice, folding her arms across her stomach. "You wanna hit the light?"

"Sure." Footsteps crossed the room, and with a quiet plastic click, everything was plunged into darkness. The footsteps came back, and the chair next to hers creaked as Sam settled into it.

"Good night, Sammy." Faith couldn't help herself; the nickname just slipped out.

An intake of breath that might have been shock, or it might have been a chuckle. In the black behind her eyelids, the Slayer had no idea.

Then, quietly and without resentment, "Night, Faith."

* * *

**December 26th, 2008, Cheyenne, Wyoming**

Around five a.m., one of the nurses on the ICU team woke them when she came in to do the morning blood draws and flipped on the lights. Faith's mouth tasted like a skunk had crawled in between her teeth and died there, so as soon as her eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, she grabbed her backpack and crept into the hall in search of a bathroom. Sam was three-fourths of the way college-educated. Surely he could handle supervising the nurse and asking semi-intelligent questions.

The Slayer peed and then brushed her teeth thoroughly, her neck aching from its awkward contact with the back of the plastic chair all night long. After washing her face and armpits and drying them off with paper towels, Faith brushed her hair back into a no-nonsense ponytail and changed from her cashmere sweater into a maroon pullover. She took a few seconds to stare at her reflection in the mirror, sans makeup. As expected, there were dark circles beneath her eyes. Nothing compared to the ones under Dean's, even accounting for his black eye, but still.

By the time she hurried back to the room, the nurse had been joined by a bright-eyed resident who had to be hopped up on caffeine. No one could be that naturally wide awake at this hour of the morning. While the nurse finished emptying the bag of urine attached to Dean's Foley catheter, Faith looked away. Eight years away from Sunnydale, and the sight of one of those things continued to have the power to make her want to scream.

"Shouldn't he be awake by now?" she asked the resident, a younger man with darkly tanned skin, severe eyebrows, and longish black hair tied in a queue at the base of his neck.

Slipping a pair of blue nitrile gloves onto his hands, the resident took a moment to answer her. "Well, it all depends. Your brother took quite the beating from his assailant." Frowning slightly, the doctor opened a plastic-wrapped package on the right side of the bed and began feeling for Dean's radial pulse. Upon locating it, he cleaned the area with a rubbing alcohol wipe and then attached a small needle tip to a syringe.

"What's that?" said Sam, stepping behind his 'sister' and dropping one of his hands onto her shoulder.

"I'm just going to draw an arterial blood gas, check the pH of his blood. Helps us be sure the ventilator setting is exactly right." Finding the pulse again, the resident turned his needle bevel up and prepared to pierce the skin. "You're going to feel a big pinch," he warned the unconscious man, and then his needle was half an inch into the soft tissue surrounding the radial artery.

Dean moaned feebly, the first noise he had made since Faith had arrived the afternoon before. As his syringe filled with bright red arterial blood, the resident glanced at his patient with increased interest. "That's a good sign," he observed. Addressing the nurse, he added, "Phoebe, can you give him a sternal rub while I finish this up?"

Phoebe navigated around Faith and Sam to lower Dean's blankets and run her knuckles forcefully up and down his sternum. The hunter moaned a second time, and she continued digging her knuckles painfully into his chest.

Knowing from experience how much that could hurt, Faith winced. Sam's hand on her shoulder tightened uncomfortably.

Syringe full, the resident withdrew his needle and pressed down with a piece of gauze until the bleeding stopped. He removed the needle tip, dropping it into a sharps container, and capped the syringe before placing it into a ziplock sample bag. After he slipped the bag into the pocket of his white coat, he walked to the head of the bed. "Mr. McGillicutty," he called, taking over the sternal rub from the nurse. "Mr. McGillicutty, I need you to open your eyes."

"Nngh," groaned the hunter. He lifted an arm a few centimeters off the mattress, but it fell back down again. His eyes flickered open a centimeter or two, and then Dean became aware of the giant plastic tube running down his throat and into his trachea. He started coughing and reached up to tug the breathing tube out.

Already expecting this, the resident caught his hands and pushed them away. "Easy does it," he said, unperturbed. "You're on a ventilator, Mr. McGillicutty. If you'll relax, we can go ahead and take you off of it in a few minutes, okay?"

Dean glared up at the physician, his chest rising and falling as he worked himself up into a

The resident raised one eyebrow coolly. "I'm Dr. Thomas. Chief resident. I need you to stop fighting the ventilator. The more you do, the more tired you're going to get, and the less likely it is that I'll be able to wean you off of it."

Still glaring, his shoulders pushing up against Dr. Thomas's restraining hands, the hunter make a kind of garbled sound around his breathing tube. It was a string of mashed together, unintelligible consonants and vowels that didn't make sense to anyone except Sam, who ducked past the nurse to be in his brother's direct line of sight.

"I'm right here, Dean. Not going anywhere," he promised. "And look –" Sam grabbed the Slayer's wrist and dragged her into view. "I even got you a 'get-well-soon' present."

"Hey," said Faith quietly.

Glancing from her to his brother and back again, Dean slumped onto the mattress. He closed his eyes, some of the tension receding from the tightened muscles in his neck.

"All right." Dr. Thomas straightened and pulled the blankets up to his patient's chin. "I'm going to take this blood gas to the lab. When I get back, we'll try coming off the support and breathing on your own. Do you have any more questions for me?" he addressed this last to Faith and Sam.

"Not at the moment," said Sam. "I just want him off the ventilator."

"I understand," replied the chief resident, his lips pulled back in a thin smile. "I'll be right back."

* * *

The rest of the morning passed slowly, with little to break the monotony other than the regular movements of the hospital and its staff. It took nearly an hour, but Dr. Thomas was eventually able to take Dean off the ventilator. He stayed in the room for a few minutes after that, monitoring the hunter's respiratory rate and his pulse. Then there were repeat X-rays and a follow-up CT scan to be done.

Dean slept the majority of the time, his throat so scratched up as to make conversation practically impossible. Every two hours or so, he woke long enough to look wildly about the room, only calming when his gaze locked down on either his brother or the Slayer.

Around ten, Sam headed out to the motel to grab a fresh set of clothes and to clean up. He offered to take Faith with him, but she declined. Dean was having another one of his long catnaps, and the Slayer had a blanket rule: nobody woke up in the hospital alone, not if there was something she could do about it.

In the silence that followed the hunter's departure, Faith kept busy by resuming her textathon, checking in with Angel, Spike, Giles, and notably Willow, who had taken her research request as a personal challenge and was determined to find something about defeating angels. So far, the red-headed witch had had no luck, but you never knew when that might change.

Eleven came and went with no signs of Sam. Dean started to snore ever so slightly. Rolling her eyes, Faith dealt herself a game of solitaire and started working her way through the cards. Another gift from the days and days of twenty-four seven alone time as a guest of the DOJ.

"I have completed my inquiries," announced a gravelly voice behind her.

"Son of a bi-" The Slayer nearly jumped out of her skin, and the jack of hearts fluttered to the cold tile floor. Lowering her voice so as to not wake Dean, she turned around. "What are you talking about, Precious Moments?"

Castiel frowned at her. Faith was beginning to wonder if the angel had any other facial expressions beyond mildly constipated. "I do not understand what that means."

"It's a kind of kitschy . . . You know what, never mind." She bent over to retrieve her card. "You figure out how your lot screwed the pooch yet?"

"What does animal fornication have to do with –"

"G-d. You really are as literal-minded as they say you are. Well?" In a show of disregard, the Slayer returned to her solitaire, casually sliding the jack on top of the queen of spades and shifting the ten of clubs over to cover them.

"It is taken care of," said Castiel. "What are you . . . What is that?"

"Solitaire," answered Faith curtly. "Pull up a chair if you want."

"I need to speak with Dean."

"Yeah, well, he's sleeping right now, and if you wake him up, I might have to hurt you."

The angel gripped the back of Sam's abandoned chair and drew it up beside the Slayer's. "You persist in threatening me. I do not think you understand –"

She rode right over him. "Do you want to learn how to play or not?"

"Perhaps, but –"

"Then keep your voice down."

His frown deepening, Castiel glanced around the room, as if just now realizing that it was missing its usual third occupant. "Where is Sam?" he asked, his tone emotionless once more.

"Went back to the motel." Faith flipped over the top card on the deck and considered it. A seven of hearts . . . She had a black six, but no black eight, unfortunately. She returned the red seven to the bottom of the deck and looked at the next card. Three of diamonds. Now that she could work with.

The Slayer set the three of diamonds up to join the two and the ace at the top of her game. Her unwanted guest was still frowning, and so she elbowed him on impulse. "Pay attention or go away."

Castiel blinked. "You are wrong to target all of your anger on me."

"Excuse me?"

He turned in his chair, his knee knocking against hers. Faith scooted her chair away automatically. Oblivious to her discomfort, the angel pressed, "What do you know about Sam Winchester and his involvement with demons?"

"Excuse me?" Faith repeated.

"You think he used white magic to kill Alastair?"

"Uhhh . . ."

"It was a demonic exorcism."

"Still not copying."

Castiel shook his head at her, his voice growing frustrated. "Sam is actively working with demons."

 _I've done that, a time or two._ But Faith wisely kept that particular thought to herself. She slowly turned card after card over on the top of the deck, determinedly not meeting Castiel's gaze. "Why're you telling me this?"

"Because he is meeting with them right now. While Dean is injured, he conspires with the forces of Hell."

She had a feeling the angel was being more than a little over dramatic, but still. He sounded too sincerely upset to be completely lying about this. The Slayer struggled to keep her tone neutral. "He . . . what? How do you . . . How do you know that?"

"I can take you there, if you like."

Torn, Faith stared at the sleeping man in the bed. She'd made a promise to herself not to leave him. But if Sam was really getting chatty with some demon, she probably ought to check it out. Finally, she shoved her cards all back together and rose to her feet. "Fine. But you come right back here and sit with Dean."

"Of course."

"And if anything happens to him while I'm gone, I'll kick your ass. That understood?"

"Again, you cannot hur – "

"Vampire Slayer, remember? I'll find a way."

Apparently deciding that continuing this discussion was futile, the angel simply reached across the space between them and placed two fingers on her forehead.

* * *

The world flipped upside down and turned itself inside out as the hospital room was replaced by a nauseating kaleidoscope that lasted for fifteen terrifying seconds until Faith's boots finally hit solid ground again. She collapsed to the pavement, first her knees and then her hands hitting the concrete, and willed herself not to throw up. When she had gotten her stomach under enough control to risk opening her mouth, she pushed herself back to her feet and glared at Castiel, who was standing smugly beside the glossy hood of the Impala.

"What . . .the hell?"

He ignored her. "Sam and his . . . friend are in the room directly in front of you. I will stay at the hospital until your return." Castiel vanished before she could get in a retort.

Damn him. Stupid fluffy feathery douchebag angels. When her head stopped spinning, she would . . . she would . . . But whatever Faith had planned on doing to Castiel was forgotten as the sound of raised voices reached her.

Careful and cautious, the Slayer crept across the sidewalk to the rusty-colored motel room door and pressed her ear up against the crack. She shut her eyes tight to better listen to the argument within.

"What are you expecting, Sam? I did the best I could, and you did the best you could," snapped a grating female voice. "Alastair's so much puppy chow, and you're the one who ganked him. Far as I'm concerned, it's a win-win."

"No. No, you should have come sooner, gotten here faster." This was Sam, his voice raised and irritated. "Then I could've gotten to Dean in time, stopped the . . .the . . ."

"You were right, Sam. Your brother wasn't strong enough to handle the job. He broke. But how was I supposed to know that? I came as fast as I could."

"I know, Ruby. I know. I just wish that . . ."

Faith straightened up outside the door, the furious darkness within her roaring its displeasure. She had heard plenty. It was one thing to use demons, to work with them when you absolutely had to. It was another to trust one over your family, over Dean. That was a step too far. Worse, how could he just blame his brother? If the devils' trap had indeed broken, the way everyone said it had, then no human would have been strong enough to take on Alastair, not if he got the jump on them.

Enough. It was time to deal with this. The Slayer took a step back and then kicked the motel door in. Stake bouncing against her leg, she strode into the room, her eyes narrowing in on the tiny brunette woman in the black leather jacket standing opposite Sam, her hands on his upper arms.

"Sam, honey, care to explain what's going on here?" the Slayer sneered.

The hunter shrank back at the sheer vitriol in her tone. "Faith," he began hastily, holding his hands out in a placative gesture. "I can explain all of this. This, this is Ruby. She's a fri – "

Faith didn't let him finish. "I know what she is." She gave the demon a quick once-over. "Gotta say, I thought she'd be a little more . . . well, more."

"Slayer," sniped Ruby, content to let Sam stand in between the two of them. Her irises and sclerae flashed black for a brief instant. "I wondered when I'd get to meet Dean's favorite slut."

"Whoah. That's not . . . Ruby, there's no need for that," hissed Sam.

"It's fine, Sam. I've been called worse." The Slayer took a languorous step forward, closing half the distance between herself and the other two. "Something tells me that your girlfriend here has, too."

"What do you mean?"

Without removing her eyes from the demon, Faith answered, "Dean told me about your summer fling. Gotta say, Sammy, I always kinda hoped you had better taste than corpses."

"Don't call me Sammy," bit back the hunter reflexively.

"Whatever. I mean, I was sort of wondering how long it took a guy to shower, what with you being gone for over ninety minutes. But, hey, it's cool. I get it now. Showering takes a little more time when there's two of you."

Tension mounted in the room, the air growing heavy and stifling. Ruby said, "I should go," and made to step past Faith on her way towards the door.

The Slayer caught her by the elbows and shoved her back towards Sam so that the demon stumbled and nearly fell. "Not so fast. I've got a bone to pick with you two."

"Hey." Sam moved forward to intercede. "Don't do that." He reached out for Faith's hands and attempted to push them down to her sides. In retrospect, that was the moment that the Slayer threw self-control to the wind.

"Bad move, hunter boy." Her teeth fully bared, Faith drew back with her right fist and landed a solid hook on the edge of Sam's chin, followed by a left cross to his right eye and then a right uppercut to the jaw that sent him staggering backwards into the edge of one of the queen-sized beds.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" demanded Ruby. "Get away from him."

Faith spun on her heel to glare at the demon. "Oh, I'm sorry, am I bothering you?" she snarled, instinctively reaching into the pocket of her peacoat for her stake.

While Sam watched dazedly from his sprawled position on the mattress, Ruby snorted at the ten-inch-long piece of wood. "What do you think that's going to do? I'm not one of your mangy vampires."

"Maybe not." The Slayer crossed the remaining space between them in one quick step and slammed the stake upwards into Ruby's gut until the wood was almost entirely buried in her stomach. Shrieking in agony, the demon collapsed to her knees as Faith ripped the stake back out again. "But this thing's been bathed in holy water and consecrated by a priest. Twice."

After stepping over the whimpering demon's body, she crouched down to stare into her hate-filled eyes. "Don't worry," Faith said with a mocking, twisted version of kindness. She wiped her bloody stake clean on the edges of Ruby's leather jacket and then patted her on the shoulder as the demon was wracked with another painful spasm. "It won't kill you. It'll just hurt like a bitch."

Dropping the stake back into her pocket, Faith whirled on her heel and stalked out of the motel room. Halfway across the parking lot, she paused to call 911 and report a domestic disturbance in the area of the Hitching Post Inn. That ought to keep Sam occupied for a while.

Once she put another three blocks between herself and the motel, the Slayer started running in the general direction of the hospital, her head tucked down against the brutal wind. If she got lost, she'd find her way back eventually. Pity that damned angel didn't have a cell phone.


	71. Recoil, pt 4

* * *

**December 26th, 2008, Cheyenne, Wyoming, 12:30 p.m.**

Sam slowly got up off the bed, his heart pounding in his chest. While he had sparred with the Slayer on multiple occasions, he had never really been on the end of her bad side. Something told him that her anger would not stop with a couple of punches. It was time to get the hell out of this motel room.

Since speed was of the essence, he carried Ruby to the backseat of the Impala and then ran back to grab his clothes and his shaving kit out of the bathroom. Turning the key in the engine, the hunter reversed out of the parking lot and gunned the engine in the direction of the hospital. He had barely put two blocks between himself and the Inn when he passed two police cars, sirens blaring.

"G-d, Sam," groaned Ruby, fingers bone-white where they clung to the seatbelt, eyes rolling back into her head in agony. "Go easy on the brakes."

"Sorry, don't got a lotta choice here," apologized the hunter, hanging a sharp right into a deserted neighborhood. He drove past rows of nearly identical two-story brick houses and parked in a cul-de-sac behind an empty red dually pick-up. "You okay?" Sam unbuckled his seatbelt and turned around to get a better look at her.

"Your brother's girlfriend just tried to gut me with holy water," the demon spat through gritted teeth. One of her hands hovered near the bloodstained rip in her t-shirt, just to the left of her navel. "Kinda burns, and not in the good way."

"Do you need stitches or . . ."

"I'll be fine. Just . . . give me a minute." Ruby leaned against the door frame and breathed slowly through her mouth.

Despite his better judgement, Sam was concerned about her condition. "Are you sure you'll be fine?"

"Yeah. Soon as all the skin her stupid stake touched sloughs off, the stuff underneath'll start knitting itself back together." Peeling the bloodied cotton away from her wound, the demon winced. "That Slayer is batsh-t crazy. I don't get how you can run around with her."

The hunter shrugged, feeling awkward. "She's good at what she does – better than anyone I've seen except for maybe my Dad and Bobby. I've never seen her do anything like, like . . . "

"She's not good," Ruby countered as she eased herself up into a sitting position. "She's psychotic. And just because your brother's being led around by his –"

"Ruby," he warned. "Drop it."

"Seriously, Sam? She's about as vicious as Alastair – and you're just leaving her to watch Dean?"

Sam straightened up in the front seat. "Look, that's enough. I'm sorry about what just happened, but Faith wouldn't ever do anything to hurt my brother. Trust me. She's . . ."

"Whatever," said Ruby dismissively, steeling herself to exit the car. She pushed the door open and swung her legs out onto the road.

"Where are you going?"

"Look, I know I can't make you believe me. But trust me, when I say this. I've seen murderers before. Spent seven hundred years in Hell, remember? I've seen just about every flavor of evil there is. And that Slayer, when she took off . . . I haven't seen murderous rage like that since, well, ever."

Grimacing, the demon clambered out of the car. "Good luck, Sam. I've got a feeling you're going to need it."

* * *

By the time she reached the Cheyenne Regional and climbed her way up the stairs to the ICU, Faith could finally think through the red haze clouding her mind. Glancing into Dean's room, she saw the trenchcoat-ed outline of Castiel. Unable to deal with him right now, the Slayer slunk into one of the women's bathrooms. She splashed cold water on her face and waited until she got her breathing under control. What had she just done? Her hands were trembling, so she stuffed them back in her pockets and went to find a nurse.

"How's he doing?" she asked in a low voice.

Wilma, the R.N. who had taken over Phoebe's shift, looked up from her computer at the nurse's station. It took her a second or two to place Faith, but then her confusion vanished, and she smiled. "Good. He's awake and talking. Dr. Thomas says he can have some ice chips. If he keeps those down, maybe in a hour or two he can try some pudding. Everything goes well, he'll probably get moved to one of the main medicine floors sometime later this afternoon."

"Thanks."

"Not at all. You headed back in?"

"Yeah."

"Here, let me get you some ice to take in to him. Last time I stepped in there, he was starting to get a bit tetchy about his thirst."

"That'd be great." Faith followed the nurse around the ICU to the ice machine and waited while she filled up an eight ounce styrofoam cup and capped it with a plastic lid. "Thank you."

"Not a problem, hon." The nurse looked her up and down with a practiced eye. "Here," she opened the mini-fridge next to the machine and lifted out two containers of Jello chocolate pudding. "These're for you. You look half-starved."

It was difficult to argue with that. The Slayer nestled the puddings in the corner of her elbow and approached Dean's room a second time. She hesitated just outside the curtain and listened to the exchange of low voices, her heart sinking further and further into her boots with every second. After a minute or two, the voices stopped, and Faith forced herself to pull back the curtain.

* * *

With the rustling of wings, Castiel disappeared. Dean closed his eyes and swallowed, hard. Everything ached, but his insides ached worst of all. Unshed tears burned behind his eyelids, and the painful lump in his throat was nearly the size of a grapefruit.

"Hey."

He opened his eyes and turned listlessly to the doorway. "How long've you been standing there?" he asked, his voice hoarse and dampened.

The Slayer stepped into the room. She had a couple of packets of chocolate pudding in one hand, a styrofoam cup in the other, and an oddly soft glint in her eyes. "Long enough," she said quietly after she dropped the puddings onto his tray table. "Stopped and talked to the nurse. She said if you can keep this ice down, you can maybe eat something later."

"Ice?"

"Yeah." Sinking into Cass's abandoned chair, Faith passed him the styrofoam cup, complete with lid and straw. "Just go easy, okay?"

Dean caught her wrist and turned her hand from side to side. Her knuckles were all cut up, mostly half-healed wounds, but a couple of spots were crusted with still-drying blood. Frowning, the hunter stared at the scrapes. It was easier than looking in her eyes. "What happened?"

"Your Cro-Magnon brother's jaw." She tilted her head to the left, remembering. "And then his eye socket . . . And then his jaw again."

"You punched Sam?"

Faith shrugged and pulled her hand back. "He deserved it. That demon girlfriend of his, Ruby or whatever, tried to stop me . . ."

"And?"

She smiled nastily. "Let's just say she's gonna be regretting that. You realize she kinda looks like me? Well, not really like me, but she's going for that whole dark hair, leather-wearing badass chick thing. Which has been my schtick since like, God, I don't know, ever? Besides, I'm way hotter in leather. Course, it kinda helps that I'm a real girl, not some demon hijacking a corpse, but, you know. Whatever sails your ship." The Slayer was babbling, and she knew it, but somehow she was unable to shut up.

Taking his cue, Dean managed a weak laugh.

"Of course," Faith leaned in a little closer, her eyes roving his face, "kinda seems like demon-possessed dead girl is what sails your brother's ship."

This was not a conversation that Dean felt like having. Ever. To change the subject, he asked, "Why'd you hit Sam?"

"He was being a dick. Railing at Cass about you not being strong enough, doing the necromantic nasty and not telling me about it . . . I dunno..." She settled back into her chair and set her boots up on the edge of the bed, still watching Dean watch the wall. "Fact is, I've been wanting to hit somebody for the last two days. I nearly got into it with your pet angel, earlier, too. He tell you that?"

"Cass might'a mentioned it. Why didn't you?"

"Wasn't entirely sure the best way to go about it. And then Sam went out to take a shower, and Feathers showed up a second time and told me some things about Darlin' Sammy and his snuggle bunny . . . . Now that I think about it, pretty sure Ol' Angel-Eyes wanted me to slam my fist into your brother's ugly mug . . ."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's obvious, isn't it? I'm a free agent. I can punch the hell out of whoever I want, whenever I want . . . That way, when I go off, he's not responsible - and he doesn't really have to deal with the consequences."

Faith paused, choosing her words carefully. She swallowed once and then asked, "Dean, what's all this about the Apocalypse?"

Without turning to look at her, Dean addressed the wall. "Cass and Alastair . . . they both said the same thing. When a righteous man sheds blood in Hell, that breaks the first seal. I started this. I started all of this. It's all my damn fault. And according to Cass, I'm the only one who can finish it. But I can't, Faith, I can't. I'm not strong enough. I'm not big enough. It's . . . it's too damn much." His voice cracked and broke, and he gazed even more steadfastly at the wall.

"Hey." The hospital bed dipped beside him, and suddenly there was an arm around his shoulders, and a hand firmly turned his chin around to face her. "Hey, Dean. Look at me. Please."

Dean gazed up at her, his lips pursed against the sheer misery welling inside of him, blinking heavily to keep from breaking any further. "What?" he asked desperately, his voice nearly strangled. "What can you do to make this better?"

"I'm still not sold on this Apocalypse," said Faith in a quiet tone as her brown eyes bored into his green ones. They were unusually warm, and Dean's voice wasn't the only one cracking. "And if you wanna hit the road and tell all these angels to go screw themselves, I'll be right beside you. Either way, whatever you do, I'll be right beside you. 'Cause I know you, Dean Winchester. And you're plenty strong. You're the strongest man I've ever met. Hell, you're the best man I've ever met."

The Slayer leaned down. For a brief moment, her lips covered his and moved against them, soft and gentle and slow. Then she sat back up against the hospital pillows and drew him down into her embrace, until his cheek came to rest on her sternum, just brushing her collarbone.

He shut his eyes and listened to the faint lub-dub of her heartbeat as the arm around his shoulders tightened and her other hand came up to rub his arm through the sleeve of his hospital gown. Dean couldn't remember the last time someone had held him like this. It should have felt foreign and uncomfortable, but this was Faith, and in some weird way, being close to her sometimes felt a little like how he felt sliding behind the wheel of his baby. Like home.

"I heard what you said to Cass, about his dad and yours." Her chin bumped the top of his head as she spoke. "Like I've said before, I don't know much about God. And I didn't really know your dad. But I know they both woulda been fools not to be damn proud to have a son like you."

Dean scrunched his eyes shut tighter, but a stream of tears began slowly leaking out of his clenched eyelids, trailing alongside his nose to drip onto Faith's t-shirt. If she noticed, the Slayer made no comment, just ran her palm up and down his right shoulder, the movement firm and steady.

Her voice dropped even lower, almost past a murmur, "It's not your fault, Dean. What happened to you in Hell isn't your fault. You had no idea about that prophecy. You had no idea about Lilith or the Apocalypse or those damn sixty-six seals. How could you? Other people are to blame here, not you."

The hunter raised his cheek off her shirt long enough to whisper, "But I broke."

"It's not your fault," she repeated. "Not a single damn percent of this is your fault."

"You . . You don't understand." It was very important to Dean that she listened, that she heard this. "I did things. Horrible things. And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed every damn minute of it, because it wasn't me on the rack, because finally I could . . . I could . . . I could get a little of my own back. Because –"

"Because there's only way to make the pain stop," Faith finished for him. "Hurt someone else."

Dean jerked his neck around to stare up at her in shock. That . . . That had sounded far too convincing. Like she actually understood. "How do you . . .?"

It was the Slayer's turn to look away, her gaze focused on a point somewhere off to the right. "I went after Angel once, you know. Woke up from that coma, saw myself for what I really was, and I knew I had to die. Knew that he was the right one to do it, too. Only Angel had other ideas, wasn't willing to play along. I got a little desperate. Had to raise the stakes – nothing else for it. So I kidnapped Wesley, tortured him for a couple of hours, until Angel showed up. Bastard still wouldn't kill me."

As she spoke, the body next to hers stiffened. "I don't think I knew that," the hunter croaked after a long moment. "Or I'd decided to forget it."

"It was a long time ago," said Faith shortly. "Feel's like the entire world's changed since then."

"It has, hasn't it?"

"And that wasn't even the last time, either," mumbled the Slayer. "I, uh, today . . . the whole thing with Sam, with Ruby . . . I just lost it. G-d, it's been a while since that happened. I probably, uh, owe somebody an apology – maybe a couple of somebodies . . ."

Dean took a minute to process this. He watched Faith's throat move up and down as she swallowed, then he pulled out of her embrace, shifting around until they were both sitting back against the uptilted mattress, their bodies aligned from shoulder to hip, equals once more. Heedless of the plastic pulse oximeter that still clung to his left index finger, the hunter reached for her hand, lacing his fingers between hers. "We're pretty frakked up, aren't we?"

Exhaling heavily, Faith grimaced. "Yeah. Twisted, frakked up, broken . . . You name it." She knocked her shoulder against his. "But hey, at least we're frakked up together."

"Yeah," he echoed, tightening his grip on the warm calluses of the Slayer's palm. Faith couldn't solve any of his problems. Not really. His throat still burned, and the world was still falling apart, and all of it, all of it was still his fault. But at least for right now, and for however long this moment might last, Dean wasn't alone. "Together."

* * *

**December 26th, 2008, Cheyenne, Wyoming, 1:45 p.m.**

Hurtling up the hospital steps, Sam prayed that he wasn't too late to head off the Slayer. He didn't quite know what he was hoping to achieve, whether he wanted to talk her out of telling Dean about Ruby or if he wanted to just confront her about her insane behavior. As he entered the ICU, he staggered to a halt. Castiel was standing just outside Dean's hospital room, the curtain partially drawn back so that he could stare through the glass.

"Cass," Sam acknowledged the angel. "What're you doing here?"

"There were a few . . . loose ends that I needed to take care of." He turned to the hunter, his expression oddly pensive. "You humans are so complicated."

"Right." Stepping up to the window, Sam peered in to see what was going on. His brother and the Slayer were sitting on opposite ends of the bed, cards in their hands and a spare heap of pocket change on the blanket between them. Faith was telling some story, gesturing animatedly with an open cup of pudding, a white plastic spoon sticking out of the top. And Dean . . . Dean was laughing, his head thrown back.

A fraction of Sam's animosity dissolved upon seeing his brother actually cheerful for the first time since . . . well, the first time in almost a month. If he was being completely honest with himself, this was the most carefree he had seen Dean since the last time Faith had been around. He reluctantly let go a bit more of his resentment.

For Dean's happiness, Sam could forgive a black eye and a handful of bruises. He could even partially rationalize the Slayer's attack on Ruby. This wasn't over, not by a long shot. Somewhere, in the not too distant future, a reckoning would have to be had. But in the meantime, he could quell his emotions until his brother was out of the woods.

He glanced back at Cass. "What's complicated about that?"

"An hour ago, I delivered Dean some very unpleasant news – I'm sure he will tell you later," added the angel hurriedly, unwilling for his story to be derailed by Sam's demands for an explanation. "That was a short hour ago, and now . . . I do not understand this change."

The hunter clapped a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "When it comes to my brother, sometimes Faith's about the best medicine there is," he said with more than a hint of irony.

"How can a person be a medicine?" asked the overly-literal angel.

"I don't know," admitted Sam. "But does it really matter?" When Castiel didn't respond, he finished, "Well, I'm gonna go see if they'll deal me in."

The angel watched as the hunter pulled open the sliding glass door and stepped into the hospital room. Dean's face lit up even more at his brother's appearance, and Faith's apprehension quickly morphed into a nod of mutual respect. He truly did not understand. None of this made sense. Especially not if the Slayer and hunter's bruises meant that she had indeed done as the angel hoped.

Lost in reflection, Castiel observed the humans as they collapsed their card game and dealt Sam in. When a nurse stopped to ask if she could help him find anything, the angel finally came back to himself. He spared one last glance for the trio in the hospital room, and then he left. It was time to return to the garrison and begin to sort out the wreckage of the last few days.


	72. Auld Lang Syne

* * *

**December 31st, 2008, Cleveland, Ohio, 6:30 p.m.**

After two days in the ICU and three days on a regular hospital floor, the doctors had finally released Dean to go home. Home . . . wherever that was. In the end, after much discussion and some passive-aggressive protestations from Sam, they decided to make the two-day drive back out to Ohio and spare Faith the cost of another airplane ticket.

Dean had always thought there couldn't be anything much more aggravating than being babied by his little brother. Every time he got seriously messed up or almost died, Sam went into smothering Mother Hen mode, like he had something to prove. It was obnoxious and unnecessary, and it didn't do one lick of good. Dean knew his limits, knew what his body could handle and what it couldn't, knew them right down to the wire. So all Sam's fussing did was ratchet up the tensions and resentments that both of them had spent so much effort to bury.

But if a fussy Sam on his own was annoying as hell, having both Sam and Faith on his case was exponentially worse. Since Dean was still hopped up on pain killers – well, really, since they  _knew_  he was hopped up on pain killers – the Slayer and his brother teamed up against him and refused to let him drive. Two days of sitting in the backseat while Sam got his grubby burrito fingers all over his baby's steering wheel, and Dean's mood was practically toxic.

Even worse, they insisted on making extra stops, for no other reason than to check and see if Dean was comfortable and to ask if he needed anything. He didn't know why they kept up with it. He was fine, just a little tired and sore. Nothing he couldn't deal with. Nothing he hadn't dealt with multiple times before. He just needed them to stop watching him.

The worst part, the absolute hands-down most irritating part of the whole damn thing, worse than their over-concern, worse than having to watch someone else drive his car for two entire days, worse even than the awkward truce between his two babysitters in the front seat, was that they'd moved the beer cooler to the trunk and were doing their absolute level best to keep him away from any alcohol.

Sure, you weren't supposed to mix alcohol with opiates, but people did it all the time. Hell, Dean had done it more than a time or two himself. And he needed a drink. Needed one perhaps more than he had ever before in his life.

Everything smelled of decay and death; food tasted like rotten eggs and corroding metal. If the drugs had started to wear off before he fell asleep, Dean dreamt of fire and pain and Alastair. And when he wasn't sleeping, the responsibility that Castiel had laid at his door sat on his chest, a four-hundred pound weight slowly crushing him to death.

When they at last called it quits in Iowa City on the first night, Dean had never been so relieved to get out of his car and to have a few private moments to himself, even if he had to get those moments by locking the bathroom door and pretending to take a twenty minute shower. He turned on the faucet and let the water run while he slumped on the closed toilet seat, his head in his hands, and tried to just breathe.

Faith and Sam were still waiting for him upon his reemergence, watching him with eyes that were too attentive and too sympathetic for him to be comfortable. Pretending that he didn't notice, Dean gingerly eased himself down onto one of the queen-sized beds and turned on the television. He kicked off his boots and flipped through the channels until he found the Godfather.

The hunter settled back against the mountain of pillows between him and the headboard and let himself be drawn into the familiar tale. He was so deep in a fit of pique that he didn't even offer to share the bed with his brother or Faith. One of them could sleep on the couch. It wasn't his problem. Instead, Dean sprawled out like a starfish and watched Brando and Pacino until he passed out.

The second day wasn't much better, although it seemed like Faith for one was finally picking up on his bad mood – or at least acknowledging it in some form. She didn't say a whole awful lot during the eight-hour drive, spending most of her time either messing around on her phone or gazing out the window. Sam continued as if everything was business as normal, with the slight exception of not giving Dean crap about his music choices. He even played his brother's favorite Led Zeppelin tape twice in a row without being asked.

Still, by the time they pulled up outside Faith's apartment building in Cleveland, Dean had more than half a mind to sneak his keys out of Sam's pocket and take off on his own. But then Faith pushed her front door open, and they stepped into an entryway filled with strings of softly glowing white icicle lights draped along the walls and the unmistakable smell of what had to be turkey and gravy.

"What the . . ." The Slayer's voice trailed off as she hung her peacoat up on its usual hook and bent over to remove her boots. Straightening up, she brushed the hair away from the right side of her face and tucked it behind her ear.

"You didn't plan this?" asked Sam.

Had Dean been a little less tired, a little less out of it, he would have made a comment about the latent nastiness in his brother's voice. His irritation growing, the hunter shrugged out of his leather jacket and set it on the hook next to Faith's as his brother dropped their duffel bags onto the entryway tiles.

Faith glanced Sam's way, her eyebrows raised and something like disappointment in her eyes. "Not a bit – "

"SURPRISE!"

Becka and Lily exploded from behind the living room couch, clad in matching black leggings, hideous red and green sweaters with creepy teddy bears emblazoned across their chests, and reindeer antler headbands perched jauntily above their sleek ponytails. Grinning so wide that their faces threatened to split in half, the two women leapt over the back of the sofa.

"Merry Christmas!" Lily started the rounds of hugs. Going first to Dean, she wrapped her arms around the hunter's middle and embraced him, mindful of his injured ribs. "Good to see you," she said, her blue eyes over-bright. After she released him, the blonde stepped over to Sam and hugged him with less care and more enthusiasm. "You, too, Paul Bunyan."

"And a Happy New Year!" echoed Becka, accidentally whacking Dean in the chin with her antlers as she squeezed him gingerly. Like her roommate, she then moved on to Sam. "We were hoping you guys would get here soon – dinner's almost ready. All we've got to do is set the table."

"You made dinner?"

Her arms falling back down to her sides, the engineering student turned to Faith. "You missed Christmas," she said by way of explanation. "And so did they." Becka gestured with her chin to the two Winchesters. "So since you couldn't come to Christmas dinner –"

"We decided to bring it to you," finished Lily. She tugged the hem of her sweater back to its usual position from where it had ridden up. "Do you like Lawrence?"

"Lawrence?" repeated Sam and Dean in unison.

"The bear." Lily pointed to the cream-colored teddy bear wearing a red vest and a holly bow-tie on her sweater. "We named him Lawrence."

Becka grabbed her friend by the elbow and dragged her sideways into the kitchen. "We'll set the table. Dean, wanna supervise? You other two can go wash up."

Choosing between more time with his obnoxious brother and the hovering Slayer or sneaking bits of snackage before dinner was a total no-brainer. Dean followed the co-eds, leaving the others behind. "Ladies, I would love to."

* * *

Left to their own awkward devices, Faith and Sam exchanged wary glances. For the last few days, they had successfully managed to avoid being alone together for any long stretch of time. Although the livid bruises on Sam's jawline and around his eye had faded significantly, memory had not.

"You can have the bathroom first." The Slayer lifted her backpack up to her shoulder and scarpered off to her bedroom before he could say anything. With the door closed firmly between herself and all the stresses of the past week, Faith unpacked her things on autopilot. She hauled her empty laundry basket out of the bottom of her closet and began dumping dirty clothes into it, sorting as she went.

As the minutes passed without interruption, the knots in her stomach unclenched, and Faith could almost find it within herself to enjoy the scent of turkey wafting through the vents. Almost. Laundry organized, she rifled through the clean clothes on their hangers. If they were having a belated Christmas dinner, she would rather not look homeless.

Finally deciding on a pair of conservative black jeans and a navy henley, she stripped out of her road trip clothes and then added them to the pile in the basket. Faith had just finished buttoning up the jeans and was pulling the Henley over her head when someone knocked on her bedroom door.

"Come in," she called, her voice slightly muffled by fabric.

It was Sam, so tall that he nearly had to duck to fit through the doorframe.

Faith got the hem of her henley down at last, covering up her pale stomach and rather too-prominent ribs. She turned to face her visitor. "Oh. Hey."

"Look," said Sam slowly as he closed the door behind him. "We need to talk."

The Slayer threaded a belt through the loops on her jeans. "Oh, great. Those're only like my top three – four – favorite words." When she ran out of holes, Faith glanced up at the giant who had invaded her safe space. "Talk about what?"

"Cheyenne."

"Which bit?"

"The bit where you tried to kill Ruby."

"Oh, you mean the bit where I went after a demon? I thought you hated demons," commented Faith, purposefully obtuse.

Sam folded his arms across his stomach impatiently. "That demon is a friend."

"Is she?" The Slayer unlocked the cedar chest at the foot of her bed and dumped the remaining weapons in her backpack into it. Stakes, knives, and what might have been a taser clunked as they landed atop Watcher's diaries and boxes of arcane ingredients. "'Cuz she sure as Hell ain't my friend, Sam. Or your brother's, either."

Faith locked the chest and returned the key to its place in the depths of her dresser. "Are you really that confident that she's looking out for you? From what everything I've heard, it sounds an awful lot like using, not friendship. But hey, what do I know? I'm just some crazy bitch, right?"

The hunter refused to take the bait. "What even was that back there in Cheyenne? It was like you just completely checked out, and something else took over. If I didn't know better, I'd say you'd been possessed." He affected an air of concern that made Faith long to punch him in his pretty face. Again.

Determined not to make the same mistake twice, the Slayer shrugged and stepped closer, crossing her arms over her chest so that her posture mirrored Sam's. "Let me tell you something," she said, her voice a hair on the menacing side of neutral. "Something that I told your brother once."

Faith walked forward until they were standing toe to toe, tilting her head back a fraction to meet the hunter's eyes square on. "Those monsters, the ones that go bump in the night? Well, handsome, they're scared of  _me_. And they didn't get that way through me being nice to every fang or black-eyed demon that fancied bumpin' uglies."

She reached a hand up to pat the man on the cheek. "You don't sleep with the enemy, Sam. Sure, you work with 'em, you use 'em, you might even like being around 'em a little bit. But you don't sleep with monsters. Especially not when they're demons, and your brother's laid up in the hospital."

"That wasn't what happened," Sam got out through gritted teeth. The matter-of-fact way in which the Slayer was denying culpability was not at all what he had expected, and he wasn't entirely sure how to deal with it.

"Really?" Finished with this conversation, Faith moved away. "'Cause, frankly, Sam, that's kind of what it seemed like. And, yeah, maybe I got a little carried away, both with your face and what's her name . . ."

"Ruby."

"Right. Ruby. Anyway, I probably shouldn't have staked her, and, for what it's worth, I'm sorry I didn't just punch her in the face, too."

Despite himself, Sam snorted. "That isn't much of an apology."

"I'm afraid it's the best you're going to get. I'm crap at apologies – ask anyone you like." Faith's fingers closed around the doorknob. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, "Oh, and one more thing."

"What?"

"It's kind of obvious you don't really care what I have to say about all this, but for the sake of argument, let's say you choose to listen for half a second. Be careful, Sam. Ruby might not be as trustworthy as you think she is."

"Funny. That's what she said about you."

"Go figure." The Slayer pulled the bedroom door open and headed out into the hallway. "Don't worry. The last couple of days have been plenty proof enough that there's only room for two people in that classic car of your brother's. Not three. So whatever you think about me, let's just keep it together for tonight, all right? I'll be out of your hair almost as soon as you like."

"I wish all this hadn't happened," said Sam, stepping past Faith on his way to the kitchen. The thumbprint-shaped wrinkle between his eyebrows smoothed away as he looked down at her. "I really do."

Faith sighed. "Me, too," she admitted and shoved her hands into her jean pockets. "Me, too."

* * *

"Why the long faces?" asked Lily innocently when they joined the group in the kitchen. "Somebody use up all the hot water?"

Before she answered, Faith took a second to inspect her kitchen. During her absence, Lily and Becka had replaced the crêpe-paper streamers with colorful lights in red, green, gold, and blue. Someone had tugged the kitchen table into the center of the room and covered it in a white linen tablecloth. Five place settings with festive candy-cane striped napkins had been fitted around the narrow table, with half-filled glasses of red wine set a inch or two above the tips of the knives. One of the girls had even gone to the trouble of making place cards.

A giant soup pot full of mashed potatoes was warming on the stove top, next to a saucepan of bubbling gravy. Its color, gentle tan rather than dark brown, suggested that this, for once, had been made from scratch instead of a packet. Lily opened the oven to withdraw a baking sheet crammed with roasted broccoli, carefully navigating her way around Dean carving the turkey in the corner.

The blonde set the vegetables down on a cooling rack and reached into the depths of the fridge for a large glass bowl filled with cranberry sauce, which she set in the center of the table.

"Wow. This . . . This looks amazing." Faith couldn't half believe her eyes. "Thank you."

Beaming, Becka pulled out one of the rickety wooden chairs and made a flourishing bow. "Your chair, my lady." She indicated the one next to it for Sam. "And yours, my lord."

Sam and Faith slid into their chairs with a little less grace than was their usual. The Slayer extended a hand for her wine glass, curling her fingers around the delicate stem. She had no idea where the girls had gotten wine glasses – must have borrowed them from their parents or something. They sure as heck didn't come from Faith's cabinets.

"You, too, Dean," ordered Lily. She pointed to the chair on the other side of Faith's. "You have more than helped. Sit. We'll serve."

The hunter took the seat indicated for him, his legs bumping against his brother's beneath the table. "Stop trying to play footsie with me, Sam," Dean groused. He followed Faith's lead and downed half of his wine in one go before either she or Sam could move to stop him. The hunter made a face. "Eugh. I'm gonna ask this one more time." He looked up at Lily pleadingly. "Are you sure I can't just have a beer?"

"No," said Becka flatly. "It's Christmas."

"Technically New Year's," muttered Sam under his breath. Lily flicked him in the back of the head on her way over to the turkey.

Never one to give up easily, Dean protested, "I'm really not a wine kind of guy."

The co-eds were unimpressed. "Tough." Lily started ladling mashed potatoes and gravy onto plates. "Now how do you like your turkey? White meat or dark?"

* * *

Dinner passed quickly and well. The turkey was moist, the gravy smooth, and everything was plentiful enough so that even Sam could fill up his many hollow limbs. When everyone's stomachs were stretched to their full capacity, and the five had split two bottles of wine between them, Becka and Lily rose from the table. They refused to listen to any offers of help and started packaging up the leftovers and scrubbing dishes to place into the dishwasher.

As the crowning achievement of their holiday celebrations, Becka withdrew a beautiful pumpkin pie from the refrigerator while Lily got out the hand-mixer to make some homemade whipped cream. Filled to bursting though they were, everyone had to find room somewhere inside for dessert. At length, the pie, too, was polished off, the few remaining slices safely ensconced in their Tupperware back in the refrigerator.

"Don't any of you get ideas about eating my pie," Dean warned unnecessarily. "I'm having that for breakfast."

"G-d forbid," whispered Faith to Sam, and he cracked a genuine smile in her direction for the first time all evening.

The whisper had not been quiet enough. "Are you making fun of me?" Feigning hurt feelings, Dean stood up and let all the food settle to the bottom of his stomach.

"Never," drawled his little brother.

"Uh huh. Well, if no one's got any objections, I'm gonna hit the shower."

"Just drop your laundry on top of the washing machine, and I'll put it in when I run a load later," offered Faith to his retreating back. "You, too, Sam."

"Thanks," said the younger hunter uncomfortably.

Rolling his eyes, Dean grabbed his duffel from the entryway and lit out for the bathroom. Spending time with people had been nice and all, but now he needed a minute or two to just think by himself. He took the Slayer at her word and left her a giant pile of unwashed clothing on the washer and dryer. Then Dean gave in to the luxury of the shower.

His belly full for once, he almost dozed off standing beneath the hot spray, his back braced against the shower wall. It was tempting to relax completely, to just let go of everything. Underneath the scalding water, the rest of the world faded away. There was no Heaven, no Hell, no Apocalypse. Just warmth and comfort and safety.

* * *

Eventually, like every good dream, the shower had to end. The hot water gave out about half an hour in, and Dean forced himself to step back out into the chilly air. Still, the hunter took his sweet time, shaving until not a shred of stubble remained along his jaw, brushing his teeth in case he forgot later. Only then did he tug a flannel button-up on over his last clean t-shirt and step back out into the hallway to rejoin the party.

While he had been otherwise occupied, Faith or someone else must have started the washing machine. It rumbled as he walked past it. Apart from the low mechanical whirring, however, the apartment was surprisingly quiet. Dean wandered through the living room and kitchen, but they were both deserted. The dishwasher swished comfortably, and dishes were lined up to dry on towels all along the counters, but no one was there.

Unsupervised, the hunter filched a bottle of whiskey out of the cabinet over the refrigerator and poured himself a glass, which he downed in one quick swallow. What his brother and the Slayer didn't know couldn't hurt them.

Speaking of which . . . His glass washed out and drying with all the rest, Dean meandered back into the living room. "Sam? Faith?"

"Here," came a muffled voice from behind Faith's closed bedroom door.

The hunter rapped once with his knuckles on the particleboard. "Hey."

"Come in."

Dean nudged the door open with his hip and moseyed inside, his bare feet sinking into the soft white carpet. The Slayer was sitting at her desk, facing away from him, hunched over her laptop. He traversed the room and stood behind her to read over her shoulder. A Gmail page was open on the computer screen, and Faith was two and a half paragraphs into what looked like a very serious message.

"What happened to the party?" the hunter asked, one of his hands falling to rest on her left shoulder.

Fingers flurrying over the keyboard, Faith fired out another few sentences before answering. "It's New Year's Eve. Beck and Lil wanted to go dancing. They dragged Sam along with them."

"And not you?"

The Slayer shook her head and clicked the 'send' button. "Mmm, I'm perhaps not as fun to take dancing as a semi-attractive Neanderthal."

That made sense, of a sort. Faith's girls were always flirting with his little brother – had been since the first time they met him. Sometimes, Sam even unbent enough to flirt back. Still, something about this felt a little off to Dean.

"That really all it was?" he continued as she started working on another email. "You two didn't play rock-paper-scissors for babysitting duty tonight or something?"

"Nah. The girls were dropping hints about how you and I deserved to have a little – what was their exact phrase? – oh, yeah. Alone time."

"Huh." Dean's other hand settled on the Slayer's right shoulder, and he dug his thumbs into the tight knots along her upper trapezius muscles. "Subtle, they ain't."

Faith twitched, one of her fingers jamming down on the space bar as he hit a nastily stubborn spot. "Ouch. That's . . . ouch. You still pissed at me or something?"

He avoided the question, pressing in even harder into that particular knot. "You don't deal with these now, they're just going to get worse."

"Ungh." The Slayer abandoned her emails and folded her laptop shut. She tilted her head back until the base of her skull was braced against Dean's stomach. Closing her eyes, Faith winced as the hunter renewed his onslaught. "I take it you are pissed, then? Makes sense. Your brother's definitely voted himself out of my fan club."

"Sam still got a burr under his saddle about Ruby, I take it?" Dean moved on to a new knot just above the spine of Faith's left scapula. She jumped three inches. "Easy, tiger," he chuckled. "You ever think about getting one of those full-body massages? You know, the ones with the Swedish gals?"

"With what time?" grumbled Faith. "If it's not vampires here, it's something back across the pond in Magic Town, or it's an apocalypse with Saint Buff out in California, or it's angels and demons with you hunter lot. Rate this's all piling up, I'll be lucky to finish my associates' by the time I'm fifty."

"You're still doing college?"

The Slayer nodded. "On the off chance this whole Slayer gig ever stops paying the bills. I don't want to end up like my mom."

Dean knew better than to make any comment other than a neutral, "Mmm." This was maybe the first time in several years that he had heard Faith mention either of her parents without serious animosity. He just dug in and continued working on her shoulders.

"Can I ask you something?" Faith said after a moment's silence.

"Any chance I could stop you?" he responded rhetorically.

"What's up with you and Sam? He schtupped a demon, you schtupped an angel . . . There something in the water you boys been drinking lately?"

Huh. He should've figured it would be something like that. "You know what I think about Sam and Ruby. Nothing . . . nothing good is gonna come out of that. I'm not sure that anything can. As for me an' Anna, well, that was just a one-time thing. One of those 'it seemed like a good idea at the time' kinda nights, if you know what I mean."

Faith snickered. "More than I care to remember." She opened her eyes and looked up at him, her levity fading. "None of those nights with you, though."

The hunter's hands stilled. "No," he agreed, taking a small step backwards to create temporary space between them. A new idea struck. "I ever show you that mark Cass left on my shoulder when he dragged me out?"

Turning her desk chair to face him, the Slayer rose to her feet. "You know," she drawled casually, "I don't think that you did."

Without taking his eyes off of hers, Dean tugged off his plaid shirt and tossed it onto the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. His t-shirt immediately followed. Feeling oddly self-conscious, the hunter waited for the impending reaction.

Already, Faith had closed the distance between them. Transfixed by the livid red handprint on the man's left deltoid, she reached out, tracing its edges with her fingertips. An odd mix of curious and horrified, she stared at the mark and then placed her palm in the center of it. Castiel's handprint utterly dwarfed hers.

"Does it hurt?" Her voice was strangely quiet. "When something touches it, I mean."

"I thought it would, at first. But it doesn't."

"Hmm." Taking this in, Faith moved her exploration to the rest of the hunter's torso in search of healed-over knife marks and bullet wounds that were no longer there. "And all the other scars . . . All gone?"

"Every single one." Dean's hands brushed her hips, catching the hem of the Slayer's henley and dragging it up over her flat stomach. His palms skimmed up along her sides and the edges of her ribs, coming to a halt just at the lower border of her bra strap. Briefly, the hunter hesitated. But then Faith glanced up from her examination of his chest, and her brown eyes met his green ones.

Slowly, the Slayer raised her arms in a silent gesture of permission. Dean continued lifting her shirt up and over her head until it, too, joined the growing pile of clothing on the cedar chest. It had been five years since that first eventful night in Los Angeles, and he found her as beautiful now as he had then. After taking a quick moment to appreciate the view, the hunter took her into his arms, his mouth covering hers.

Everything else vanished, his entire world shutting down to sensation. Her lips moving on his, one of her arms around his neck, the fingernails of her other hand digging into his scalp. Her hair, soft and silky beneath his hands, the polyester fabric of her bra pressed against his skin. Faith walked him backwards until he collided with the far wall, her fingers scrabbling against the metal of his belt buckle.

Dean managed to surface long enough to catch her hands. "Wait," he said breathlessly, refusing to let her go, each wrist easily encircled between his thumb and index finger. "Slow down."

"Why?" Faith groaned against the corner of his mouth.

"Because." The hunter kissed her, long and slow and steady, pulling back only to catch his breath. "Because," he said more seriously, looking down into her eyes. "Because I spent forty years downstairs – longer than I ever did topside. For every half-decent memory in my head, there's at least twice that number of Hell-flavored ones. And I wanna replace as many of those as I can with good memories – with better ones."

Releasing her hands, he kissed her again, this time with the lightest of pressure. "So let's slow down, take our time. We've got the whole night."

The Slayer mumbled something frustrated under her breath. Dean wrapped an arm about her shoulders and drew her closer. His lips brushed her forehead. "We've got all night, Faith," he repeated. "All night. Just you and me. And I promise you, this time I'm not going anywhere."


	73. Brown Eyed Girl, pt 1

* * *

**January 24th, 2009, St. George, Utah, 2:30 p.m.**

"Sleep with one eye open, gripping your pillow tight! Exit: light! Enter: night! Take my haaaaand - we're off to Never Never Land!" Dean drummed enthusiastically with both hands on the steering wheel, bopping his head in time to the beat as he passed a nondescript blue Honda, zipping along I-15 on a south-bound quest for hot chicks, easy money, and enough greasy food for a thousand heart attacks. It was his thirtieth birthday, and that could only mean one thing: Vegas.

A mere hundred and twentyish miles lay between him and the bright lights of the Strip, and already Dean had planned out his favorite pit stops. For the next forty-eight hours, it would be all fun, all the time. Now if only his little brother would stop looking like someone had spit in his cornflakes and get with the party.

The hunter glanced across the front seat of the Impala to where Sam sat typing away intently at his laptop, his forehead wrinkled in an all-too familiar scowl. Reaching out with his right hand, Dean batted at the laptop screen and flipped it shut.

"Hey!" complained Sam, looking up in irritation. "What'd you do that for?"

"Dude. Two hours til Vegas. Stop moping."

"Dude." The younger man reopened his computer. "I've told you like a thousand times. Don't touch my laptop."

His critique slid off Dean like water off a duck's back. Caught up in his Nevada fantasies, the hunter continued excitedly, "So, I've been thinking. We get into town, check into some motel, and then we could hit the neon museum – or the mob museum."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You hate museums, Dean."

"Yeah, well, this one's like a boneyard for all the retired neon signs of Vegas – just imagine what kind of crazy stuff they must have. And I figured you'd get a kick out of the mob one. Maybe then you'd stop acting like the Grinch for a minute or two."

"I'm not acting like the Grinch," replied Sam on autopilot.

"Really? 'Cuz, to be honest, I keep expecting to look over there and find you all green and fuzzy. What're you working on, anyway? Lilith's in the wind, and we haven't heard from Cass since I left the hospital last month. You find us a case in Nevada or something?"

"Not exactly," his brother hedged.

Dean turned Metallica down on the stereo to a dull roar instead of a full one. "Not exactly?" he repeated. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Accepting the fact that Dean wasn't going to let go of this topic anytime soon, Sam shrugged uncomfortably. "Nothing much. Just emailing back and forth with Bobby."

"About what?" pressed Dean.

The younger man looked down at his knees and said quietly, "About how to deal with Slayers."

"How to . . ." Dean killed the radio entirely and stared at his brother in blank incomprehension before turning his eyes back to the road. "Why are you researching that?"

Sam countered the question with another question, a classic Winchester technique. "Dean, how much do you trust Faith? Really?"

Before the other man could answer, he continued, "If you ever had to go up against a Slayer, how would you beat her? Most of the lore on them's carefully guarded, either by the Slayers themselves or by various vampires. It's said that the Order of Aurelius knew more about defeating the Slayers than anyone else, but they're now defunct – their last real leader was murdered in California in the late 90's."

"Buffy," muttered Dean to himself. Louder, he said, "Sam, what are you freaking out about? The Slayers aren't evil. They hunt monsters, same as us. Why would you want to know how to kill them?"

"Are you so sure about that? 'Cause, if you remember, Slayers have a reputation for going off the rails. Faith, in particular."

They had come round to this again. Every year or so, his brother managed to find an excuse to express his displeasure about Faith's 'troubled' past. Dean had long since gotten sick of it.

"Sam, for the last time, that was over a decade ago. She was a kid, goin' through a rough patch. She's not that person anymore." Dean shot his brother a calculating look. "This is all about Ruby and what happened back in Wyoming, isn't it?"

Jaw clenched, Sam shook his head mulishly. "No, it's not."

"You know what? I kinda think it is. Look, for the record, I woulda gone after Ruby same as Faith did. Only I'd've had the knife, and it might'a been a little more permanent. And you know that," he added as his brother's expression twisted into something particularly bitchy. "So what I don't get is why exactly you're so pissed at the Slayer about this. Is it because she punched you?"

"No."

"Then what gives, dude? Faith's our friend. You don't research ways to knock off friends."

"Castiel's supposedly our friend. And that doesn't stop you from wanting to know everything about anything that might hurt angels."

"Yeah, but that's because there're unknown numbers of the super-powered winged douchebags. And I don't know that I'd go so far as to call Cass always friendly. Angels . . . they aren't human, Sam. However super-strong Slayers might be, they're still definitely human. Faith's still human. And she's our friend."

"If you say so," said Sam with a shrug of his shoulders. He might as well have been saying, "Whatever." The tone and the eye-roll that accompanied it were much the same. He flicked the volume dial on the stereo, returning Metallica to their full-out bellowing glory, and started typing away at his keyboard again.

Dean's hands tightened on the steering wheel, a newly arisen lump in the pit of his stomach. Out of the corner of his eye, he surveyed his brother's activity and the unpleasantly nasty look that lingered on his features. The hunter glanced back at the clock on the dashboard. Barely ninety minutes before they hit Las Vegas. Ninety minutes before they reached their motel. Ninety minutes before he had to make a decision.

And yet, somehow, Dean had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that his decision had already been made for him.

* * *

**January 24th, 2009, Las Vegas, Nevada, 4:45 p.m.**

"I'm gonna get a Coke," announced Sam, dropping his duffel bag onto the bed closest to the door. "You want anything?"

"Nah," said Dean. He flipped through the black plastic binder full of ideas on 'Doing Vegas on a Budget' and scanned the entries in search of a new bars to visit. They were going to need to win a few rounds of pool from overconfident vacationers in order to pad their wallets enough for a satisfactory trip to the big names on the Strip. "I'm good."

His younger brother shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Barely had the door closed behind his lanky six-foot-plus frame when the binder fell from Dean's loose fingers to land with a resounding thwack on the wooden desk. Dean darted into the bathroom, turning the shower on to mask any sounds of conversation, should Sam come back earlier than he expected.

He tapped out the familiar ten digits on his phone. 2-1-3-5-5-5-6-0-8-1. Faith answered on the third ring.

"Aren't you supposed to receive calls on your birthday, not make them?" she teased.

In the background, he could hear faint metallic cracks. "What's that?" asked Dean, momentarily distracted.

"Lily and Becka decided they needed some fencing practice. Called me in to referee. Happy birthday, by the way."

"Thanks," he responded automatically. "They're not using real edged weapons, are they?"

Faith snickered into the phone. "What else would they be doing? Hey!" she addressed someone on the other end of the line. "Keep your guard up, or you'll lose that hand!" Returning her attention to the phone, she said, "Enough of that. How's your trip?"

"It's . . . good. We just got into town not an hour ago."

"Seriously? Then what're you doing talking to me? Shouldn't you be chasing your hamburger heart attack by now? Get out there! Go find some poker and strippers, and go have the kind of weekend that'd make me blush."

Despite the churning in his stomach, Dean smiled. "All in good time, Faith. All in good time," he promised. "But first, I was wondering if you could do something for me."

"As long as it's not phone sex," said the Slayer flatly. "Becka!" she hollered at one of her trainees. "When I told you to pull blows earlier, I didn't mean for you to turn this into a friggin' ballet. Go after her!"

"What?" echoed Dean, not sure that he had heard her properly.

"Dude. You're in Vegas. I'm not having phone sex with you. You're horny, you go pick someone up at a bar like the rest of us humans."

Count on her to take it to a sex place. Slayer girl had a talent for taking the conversation to a sex place. "Faith . . . That's not what this is about. At all."

"Oh. Then sure, yeah, I got you. What do you need?"

The hunter ran a hand along the back of his neck awkwardly and perched on the edge of the closed toilet seat. "You thinking about heading back to London any time soon?"

Faith took a moment to respond. "Not in particular, no," she said slowly. "Oy! Lily! I've seen grandmas with better footwork. Get moving!" The noise of steel crashing against steel intensified. "Why do you ask? You want me to keep thing stateside?"

"The opposite, actually."

"Huh." The Slayer digested this. "How come?"

"Sam."

"He still pissed?"

"And showing no signs of becoming un-pissed. He's been looking into Slayer lore, trying to figure out what your all's weak spots are."

"That . . .doesn't exactly inspire confidence."

Dean exhaled heavily. "Yeah. I know. So, if you've got something that needs tending to across the pond, now might be a good time to tend to it."

Her voice darkened with suspicion. "How do I know you're not just trying to get me out of the way before this Apocalypse of yours shows up?"

"Trust me, I'd rather have you on the same continent, but the way Sam's been acting lately . . . Something's up with him, Faith. And I can't quite put my finger on it, but it's not good. Whatever it is. He's easy to set off – jumpy, even – and I don't always know exactly which way he's gonna jump."

"Hmm."

"So I'm gonna ask again . . . Angel need your help with anything over in London?"

"There's always something in London that could use a little Slayer's touch. Besides, Angel's got all these books. Surely some of them reference the Apocalypse . . . Maybe I can find out more on these Seals that Lilith's breaking. There has to be a list somewhere, right? Other than whatever one your kind of angels keep."

The hunter waited with baited breath as Faith talked herself into the idea. She mumbled on for a good thirty seconds' more, planning out loud all the information she would find to keep Lucifer from popping out of his cage. When her musings trailed off into silence, he said, "Can you leave by the end of next week?"

"Wow. You really are serious about this, aren't you?"

"Like I said, Faith, Sam's not quite himself right now. And I don't want the two of you goin' head-to-head again."

"Guard up!" bellowed the Slayer at either Becka or Lily. Dean couldn't tell which. "Yeah, I guess I could leave in the next few days or so. You sure you don't just want me to come out there and knock your brother onto his butt a time a two? Set him straight once and for all?"

Dean laughed. "As much as I'd enjoy watching that, I'm not sure it'd solve this."

"No," agreed Faith reluctantly. "No, perhaps not."

"Maybe . . ." The hunter paused and then continued, "Maybe we should stick to email for the next little bit."

"Not a lot of privacy when you're living on the road, huh?"

He chuckled, but there wasn't much humor in it. "Something like that. You give those British monsters hell, okay?"

Faith recognized the sign-off for what it was. "You got it. Take care of yourself, Dean." She hung up, leaving the hunter to his own thoughts. He killed the shower faucet and washed his hands in the sink.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, Dean raised his eyebrows and forced a smile. It was his thirtieth birthday, his brother was acting even weirder than usual, and he had just told his best friend to leave the country. There was only one thing for it: time to get wasted.

* * *

**January 29th, 2009, Cleveland, Ohio**

In the six days between her phone call with Dean and when she and her duffel bag his the tarmac in the U.K., Faith went to work with a vengeance. Before leaving, she cleaned her entire apartment from top to bottom and handed over an extra set of spare keys to Becka and Lily. Along with her laptop and the textbook for her latest Intro to Accounting course, the Slayer carefully packed away Wesley's journal in the depths of her backpack, embarrassed to admit how much like a safety blanket it had become.

On her last night in Ohio, Lily and Becka offered to take her out for dinner at a local steakhouse. Faith had a mild suspicion that it was a set-up, but off she went anyway, like a carnivorous lamb to the slaughter. To their credit, the younger women at least waited until she had finished her sirloin before launching into their milquetoast version of the Spanish Inquisition.

She was mildly surprised when their questions revolved not around the current situation with the Winchesters and their Biblical Apocalypse but around a member of the Slayer organization whose existence Faith would have been quite happy to forget: Kennedy.

"What about her?" she asked in surprise.

Lily exchanged a long, meaningful glance with her best friend, debating how much to say. It bothered Faith, the idea that these two, out of everyone, were keeping secrets from her. Not that she wanted to hear every detail of their lives – she didn't, especially not when it came to boys – but there was a difference between not mentioning the irrelevant and actively choosing not to share pertinent information.

"What?" she repeated, a little harshly.

The girls seemed to come to a decision, and with a nod from the brunette, Lily took the lead. "Well, she's been emailing us," she began hesitantly.

"Emailing you?"

"There's a Slayer listserv . . . I believe Dawn set it up? Becka's one of the moderators."

Faith looked to Becka for confirmation. "Really?"

Becka took a long sip from her glass of water. "Yes, really. It seemed less obnoxious and expensive than international phone calls. You wouldn't believe what a mess it was in when they asked me to organize things . . . They were using a Yahoo Groups thing, for crying out loud."

"That means nothing to me."

The brunette set her glass back on the table. "I know. Anyway, this Kennedy chick's been emailing us. Turns out she's put together some start-up. Deepscan, I think it's called?" She turned to Lily for confirmation.

"Yeah. Deepscan. It's a private security firm, hires out Slayers as bodyguards. She was wondering if we wanted to join."

"No," Faith denied bluntly, forgetting for a moment that she was addressing two twenty-one-year-olds, not the teenagers who she had taught how to fire a crossbow and coached through running their first 5K's. She had spent the last six years encouraging them to live outside the Slayer box, to pursue school and music and whatever caught their imaginations. While she and Buffy might be Slayers first and foremost, to the dereliction of all else, that didn't mean that the next generation had to tread the same path.

"No," she repeated, "you're not going to do that. I don't care what Kennedy says. You two are about to graduate. And then you're going to get jobs and have boyfriends and get married and have ridiculous numbers of children and –"

"Whoah, Faith." Becka held her hands up as Lily sniggered into her napkin. "Hang on, there. I'll settle for the graduation and the job. No need to plan our whole lives out, just yet." She smiled to take any sting out of her words.

"Obviously, we told her no," continued Lily. "Beck's got a few interviews coming up with various engineering firms in the city, and I'm still waiting to hear back about grad school applications. But even if I wasn't, you wouldn't need to worry. Slaying's part of who I am, but it isn't all that I am."

"Or all that you are, either," added Becka, narrowing her gray eyes and staring Faith down. "For the record. If that was ever up for debate. But I wouldn't be surprised if Kennedy gets a hold of you somehow and asks you to join."

Mildly regretting her outburst, the Slayer pushed her silverware across the plate and corralled the last scraps of sirloin. "What do you mean, somehow? Am I not on the listserv?" she joked.

"Actually, you're not." The brunette returned to shoveling French fries into her mouth. "It's mostly for the new girls – the previously 'Potential' crowd. Besides, we didn't want you getting spammed. There's a lot of ridiculousness and gossip that gets sent around."

"Interesting. Anything I should know?"

Lily and Becka traded conspiratorial looks. "No. Like Beck said, it's mostly all gossip."

"And none of it's about me?" Somehow, Faith had difficulty believing that. The girls rose in unison and pushed their chairs back from the table. "Where are you going?"

"Bathroom."

"Be right back."

"You're really not convincing, you know," grumbled Faith at their departing backs.

* * *

The co-ends returned a few minutes later, their faces carefully schooled into expressions of innocence. Although she didn't buy that innocent act for a second, Faith found them amusing rather than irritating.

Becka slid back into her wooden chair and picked at her fries. "We've got a question for you."

"Fire away. I'm an open book."

"Right," coughed Lily, discreetly registering her skepticism.

Faith resisted the urge to stick her tongue out and settled for a grimace instead. "Ask your question, ladies."

After glancing at each other one last time, the Slayerettes bit the bullet. "Have you ever heard of a book series called Supernatural?" queried Becka.

"No. Should I have?"

"I don't think so." Lily shook her head. "It's one of those young adult paranormal romance things – like Twilight."

"G-d," muttered the Slayer under her breath. "Anything but Twilight."

"Yeah. Uh, anyway, the thing is . . ." For once, the blonde's usual articulateness seemed to be failing her. Her eyes flickered to Becka for moral support. "The thing is, they're awfully popular with some of the other girls, and they've got almost everyone thinking in terms of Brontian romance."

This was making less and less sense. "Come again?"

"Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre . . ."

"Never read 'em."

"Oh. Well, they're interesting – not exactly pleasant, but interesting. I guess the short version would be that . . ., Becks, help me out here."

"People are romance-crazy, and since Buffy isn't actively dating anyone right now, there's a tendency to, uh, speculate a lot. Especially about you, since you're the other Original Slayer – or however you want to put it. And we didn't want you to be having to fend off a bunch of immature, inappropriate emails asking you questions about your personal life."

"Thanks," said the Slayer slowly, although she was not entirely sold. "That's . . . That's very thoughtful of you."

"We try," replied Becka as she reached for another French fry.

"Like I said," Faith repeated, watching the fry's trajectory from plate to mouth, "very thoughtful."

* * *

**January 31st, 2009 London, England, 2:30 p.m**

After twelve and a half hours on a plane, an hour in the customs line, and another hour on the tube, Faith finally emerged into the chilly winter sunlight outside Picadilly Circus. Backpack and duffel in hand, she strolled the mile and a half between the tube station and Giles' flat. It felt good to be back in the city; familiar noises and smells beckoned to her as she walked, and her favorite pub was plastered in fliers advertising a new weekend happy hour.

Perhaps she'd have to come back this way in a couple of days, convince Angel to take a night off from brooding to guzzle down less-expensive beer. Vamps could drink – and drink like the fishes, if Spike's example wasn't some bizarre, once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon. Allowing herself the luxury of a brown study, Faith pondered the curious metabolisms of vampires, automatically avoiding the puddles of melted snow, spilled coffee, and who knew what else as she stepped over a gutter and back up onto the sidewalk.

When she arrived at Giles' old building, she hadn't sorted out much. But that was all right. She hadn't intended to. Ignoring the posh elevator with its gleaming, polished doors, Faith climbed the five flights of stairs, vaguely annoyed at her own shortness of breath. She used to run those stairs three times a day, and her duffel wasn't that heavy. Dammit. She  _had_  gotten out of shape in Ohio.

At the top of the stairs, the Slayer took a left and walked down to the end of the hallway. Unit 5-F. She fumbled in her backpack for her old keys. Her fingers closed around the cool metal, and she unlocked the deadbolt, nudging the door open with her hip.

Months had passed since the last time Faith had been here, but nothing had really changed. Locking the door behind her, she moved along the dark entryway. Angel must have finally gotten around to putting up blackout curtains.

The flat smelled of old books, leather furniture, and deep down, just barely at the edges of her awareness, a tinge of blood. Faith's mouth twisted into a wry smile. How fitting for a vampire.

"Anybody home?" she called out, forgetting for a brief moment that this was prime nap time for the children of the night.

"Kitchen!" came the unexpected response.

Now that she thought about it, Faith detected another smell – bacon. She followed her nose down the hall, past the study and the living room, and into the kitchen, where she found Angel standing at the stove, somehow taller and more rectangular than she remembered. As the vampire turned around to face her, she reflected that although he was the same height as Dean, somehow Angel always seemed so much larger.

 _Must be the shoulders,_  she decided, and she set her bags down on the kitchen linoleum. "What's all this?" Faith gestured to the range, where a skillet full of pale bacon had just begun to sizzle. A carton of eggs was sitting on the counter next to the sink, as well as a large mixing bowl filled with a lumpy batter.

Angel's gaze swept over her from head to toe, and Faith retreated a step or two. Souled or soulless, her Slayer senses always got a little uncomfortable with that much vampiric eye contact. "Breakfast for dinner."

"You don't eat."

"You do."

"Yeah, but the last time you fed me breakfast, it was jelly donuts, and I'd just tried to kill you." Faith went up on tiptoe to better inspect the contents of the mixing bowl. "Is that – are you making pancakes?" She gave the spatula an experimental stir. "With chocolate chips?"

". . . Yes?"

The Slayer reached over and placed the back of her hand on Angel's abnormally prominent forehead to assess his temperature. "Do you have a fever?"

"No." He pushed her hand away. "I've got to flip the bacon."

"Uh huh. Whatever you say, boss. I'm gonna drop my stuff. Try not to burn the apartment down in the meantime, okay?"

Unduly cheerful, Faith wandered through the flat. Her old bedroom, which had, awkwardly enough, belonged to Giles, was just as she had left it less than three months before. The heavy goose-down duvet, the stack of occult tomes on hell dimensions on the nightstand, the shoebox full of stakes at the top of the closet. Humming softly to herself, the Slayer unpacked.

 _A place for everything, and everything in its place._  One of the many lessons from prison that Faith didn't think she could ever unlearn. Just as in Cleveland, everything here had its designated location, and she whiled away the next fifteen minutes returning everything to its spot. The tantalizing aroma of bacon slowly filling the air, she moved the clothes to their hangers; her laptop, study materials, and Wes's diary to the desk; and the Smokey the rearing onyx cowhorse to pride of place on the bookshelf.

Things settled to her satisfaction, the Slayer ventured again into the kitchen. Angel had just finished up the bacon and was now frying eggs in the grease, his brow knit in concentration as he flipped his first pancake. Faith leaned against the doorframe, watching.

"You know, if I'd had any clue you were going to miss me enough to cook, I'd've gone on vacation a long time ago."

"Mmm," he replied noncommittally.

"Provided that tastes as good as it smells, I might even be willing to watch one of those old black and white movies you like so much – after I take a nap, of course."

"Of course."

"I'm gonna ditch my shoes – don't start eating without me."

"Wouldn't dare," said Angel, his tone just a shade too neutral to be considered snarky.

Faith eyed the back of his head for a few seconds and then slipped back to her room. While she did in fact have to ditch her tennis shoes, that was only half of what she needed to do. The Slayer unzipped the top of her backpack and withdrew her phone, dialing in a unfamiliar number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Kennedy? Yeah, this is Faith. About that Deepscan thing of yours . . . you still looking for Slayers? You are? Good. Sign me up."


	74. Brown Eyed Girl, pt 2

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 1:30 p.m.  
** **Subject: California Dreamin'**

Hey. Sorry I've been off the radar for the last couple of days. You would not believe the amount of dust that's piled up in this place since I left. You'd think that vampires might be a little more sensitive to dust bunnies, but you'd be dead wrong.

Besides the actual dust, I've had to sort out a few power struggles between Angel and Nadira, the leader of the Slayers over here in Magic Town. It's funny – this whole magical real world sandbox really ought to be big enough for all the kids to play in, but somehow it's always too small. Wonder why that is. If we're all control freaks at heart, or just those poor chickens pecking about in some dirt pen, thinking they're free range.

Anyway, I guess my big news of the week is that I signed up with this private consulting firm, Deepscan. It's run by a Slayer called Kennedy. Figured it couldn't hurt to keep a closer eye on what the rest of the hot chicks with superpowers are up to. And, well, it'd be nice to have some money that didn't belong to Giles originally.

They're sending me out on my first job, with a chick named Mai. We're headed to Los Angeles to work as bodyguards for some rockstar named Billy Rage. You ever hear of him? Apparently, he's got hordes of teenage fangirls. We leave tomorrow, and I can't say I'm looking forward to that.

Sorry this turned into a bit of a novel. Any chance you and Frankenstein will be in LA sometime in the next couple of weeks?

Take care of yourself,

Faith

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 8:42 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: California Dreamin'**

Keep up the long emails. Gives me something to read when Sam's monopolizing the bathroom. He is such a girl.

Good thing Angel's got you around to help him sort things out. For a guy who's been undead for the last couple centuries, he doesn't always seem that 'with it,' if you catch my drift. Is that some kind of vampire thing? Do they get smarter as they get older or just demented?

Heh. That's the odd thing about magic and power. Nobody's ever really happy with what they have; they always want more. People, demons, angels. . . Seems like it's always about either getting screwed or having the mojo to do the screwing.

Never heard of Billy Rage. You'll have to let me know how that goes. Will say this, though. Guy's damned lucky to get two Slayers as bodyguards.

Don't think we'll be able to make it out to California this go-round. Got an unquiet spirit out in Maine. En route that way first thing in the morning.

-Dean

P.S. Wasn't Frankenstein the scientist? Didn't the thing just go by 'the creature'?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 9:06 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: California Dreamin'**

You've been reading Shelley? Wow, you have been bored lately.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 9:13 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: California Dreamin'**

It's been a long month. Honestly, Faith, I'm tired.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 9:17 p.m.  
** **Subject: Tired**

Of?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 9:21 p.m.  
** **Subject: Come On**

You really gotta ask that question?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 9:25 p.m.  
** **Subject: Yes**

And ruin all that time Giles spent teaching me not to make assumptions?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 9:28 p.m.  
** **Subject: Fine, Then**

Alright. You want a confessional? Here you got: angels, demons, Sam and Ruby – I'm tired of the lot of it. Can't stop thinking about Alastair, either.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 9:31 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Fine, Then**

Oh yeah?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 9:40 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Fine, Then**

Yeah. I mean, I know that Sam killed him. Sam told me about it, Cass saw it, Cass told me about it – I know that he's dead. In an academic way, you know? But sometimes I just can't quite get the rest of me to actually believe it.

And it's not like I could talk to Sam about any of this. He's frigging driving me crazy.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 9:44 p.m.  
** **Subject: Listen**

Dean. Alastair's never gonna touch you again.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 9:49 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Listen**

I know that, Faith. But knowing doesn't stop the dreams.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 5, 2009 at 9:53 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Listen**

G-d. Why does it all have to suck so much?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 9:57 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: RE: Listen**

Not a clue. When you figure it out, let me know?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 5, 2009 at 10:02 p.m.  
** **Subject: none**

Aye-aye, captain. Crap. I've got to pack up my computer and get ready to leave for the airport. Text you when I land in the States tomorrow?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 10:07 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: none**

Travel safe.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 5, 2009 at 10:10 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: none**

I'll do my best. Take care of yourself. Okay, Dean?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 5, 2009, at 10:14 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: RE: none**

I always do – you know me.

. . . .

* * *

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 17, 2009, at 5:15 a.m.  
** **Subject: Kill Me Now**

Sorry I didn't get a chance to call you again before I took off back to the U.K. Those last couple of days in L.A., everything went to hell in a handbasket faster than some Olympic sprinting trial. It's a long story, so I'll try to go with the short version.

So, guess who thought she was on this mission to protect some entitled alcoholic playboy musician from getting popped by demons or choking on his own puke? Yeah, that would be me. Unfortunately, like every other crappy thing in this crappy universe, it didn't turn out quite that simple.

Billy Rage? Turns out he's a demon. And a statutory rapist. And did anyone bother telling the ever so slightly trigger happy Slayer about either of these things before she went off and tried to end the sonnuvabitch? No. You can bet your shiny black muscle car that they didn't.

To be fair, Kennedy says she didn't know about the underaged girls. Just the demon thing. Still don't know why the hell she didn't tell me. Seems like the kind of information that it's important to know. And now everyone's going around whispering about how 'Faith messed up,' again.

Dammit, when did the world turn upside down? When did it start being okay to protect demons without any proof of their being on the good side other than the Benjamin's in their wallets? And since when is it okay not to provide whoever's doing the dirty work for you with critical information?

It's been a week, and I'm still pissed as hell. Been cleaning out vampire nests with Angel every night for the last five nights straight, and I've still can't get the edge off this anger.

This isn't my frakking fault. It's not. And I'm so frakking sick and tired of all these kid Slayers spreading crap about me. It's like the sorority from Hell, only you never graduate and you never get to move away.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 17, 2009, at 8:22 a.m.  
** **Subject: Frak Them**

Just frak them all. You don't need them, Faith. Why don't you quit?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 17, 2009, at 12:33 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Frak Them**

I can't, Dean. I can't.

Ugh. You know that. Neither of us can quit. Neither of us can ever quit.

Can't quit family, can't quit the job, can't quit hunting down those evil sons of bitches so that somewhere out there other people's families and other people's kids have the chance for something resembling a normal life.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 17, 2009, at 6:52 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Frak Them**

Yeah . . . But don't you wish you could?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 17, 2009, at 7:15 p.m.  
** **Subject: Hah**

Every day, Dean. Every single g-ddamned day.

. . . .

* * *

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 28, 2009 at 12:14 a.m.  
** **Subject: Headed Offline**

Hey. I'm giving this Deepscan thing another shot. They've got some sort of search and rescue planned in Brazil – Riley Finn, an old ex of the Buffster's, and his wife have gone missing. Guess this is Kennedy giving me a chance to redeem myself?

Anyway, I kinda owe Riley some apologies for some stuff that happened back in Sunnydale – G-d, why can't the past just fade into the background sometimes? Figured this was as good a chance as any to make up what I owe the guy.

Since this is likely to be all remote and rain-foresty, I'll probably be incommunicado for the next couple of weeks. But I'll definitely check this as soon as I get back.

Try to stay out of trouble and keep your brother from confronting Lilith while I'm off playing Indiana Jones?

-Faith

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 28, 2009, at 7:04 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Headed Offline**

Good luck finding Buffy's missing ex. Be careful. I'll talk to you soon.

-Dean

. . . .

* * *

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 25, 2009 at 10:45 p.m.  
** **Subject: Holy Frak**

I hate angels. I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate angels.

And no, that wasn't the frakking autocorrect on my frakking phone.

Get the hell back from the rain forest, Faith.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 3:10 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Holy Frak**

Hey. I'm back. My nose won't stop running – think I'm allergic to half the things down in Brazil.

What happened?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 7:30 p.m.  
** **Subject: Frakking Angels**

Messed with our memories. Took Sam and me, made us forget who we were, stuck us in some iron company in Ohio, set us up on some dumb-ass ghost hunt vision quest to help us get our mojo back.

You try to quit, damn interfering feathered douchebags won't let you.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 9:00 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Frakking Angels**

That sucks. Are you okay?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 9:05 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Frakking Angels**

I'll be fine. Just a little pissed that they've been rummaging around in my head again.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 9:08 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: RE: Frakking Angels**

Yeah. I'd be pissed as hell, too.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 9:13 p.m.  
** **Subject: Yeah**

Anyway, how was the rain forest? You find that missing guy?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 9:16 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Yeah**

Riley? We did eventually. And it was just about as awkward as I figured it was going to be. Think I'm finished with Deepscan for the time being. There's only so much chick drama that I can handle.

Ugh. I've got to clean out the living room today – Andrew's planning on swinging through Magic Town on some sort of mission. Think Buffy kicked him out of San Francisco for shenanigans.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 9:20 p.m.  
** **Subject: Andrew**

What'd he do?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 9:24 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Andrew**

No clue. But last time he ended up in B's doghouse, it was because he genetically engineered a Ragna demon knockoff.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 9:27 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Andrew**

Ragna demon?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 9:31 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: RE: Andrew**

Yeah. Like that giant spider in Lord of the Rings.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 9:35 p.m.  
** **Subject: Shelob**

That's actually almost cool. Life-size?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 9:41 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Shelob**

Practically.

Hey – I'll be swinging back through Cleveland around the end of May. Lily and Becka are finally graduating. You and Sam'd be welcome to come celebrate, if y'all aren't hip deep in angels'n'demons.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 9:50 p.m.  
** **Subject: Good to Know**

Can't make any promises, but we'll try to be there.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: March 27, 2009 at 9:54 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Good to Know**

Cool. Speaking of Lord of the Rings, you catch any good movies lately?

. . . .


	75. Brown Eyed Girl, pt 3

* * *

**April 5th, 2009, London, England, 5:00 a.m., Greenwich Mean Time Zone**

Werewolves in Hyde Park, exsanguinated bodies found on the banks of the Thames, an entire coven burned to death in Shoreditch . . . and it wasn't even sunrise yet. Faith tromped back up the stairs to Giles' palatial flat, her boots caked ankle-high with mud, wincing with every other step. She'd pulled a muscle somewhere along her spine chasing down that werewolf, and all the Slayer wanted was to take a long, hot bath and crawl into her bed.

As Faith reached the fifth floor, her stomach gurgled uncomfortably, its protests an undeniable reminder that her last meal had been almost twelve hours ago. Maybe, if Angel was home, she could persuade him to put his brief eighteenth century barfly career to good use and make her a full English breakfast. And a cup of tea. G-d, she was getting old.

The Slayer slipped into the apartment and slowly removed her rain jacket and boots while her back twinged with another cramp. Frak. She had a sinking feeling that they were probably out of Bengay, and it was too close to sunrise to send Angel out to the pharmacy. Sometimes having a vampire for a flatmate could be damned inconvenient.

"How'd the werewolf hunt go?" called Andrew from the living room as the Slayer attempted to creep unnoticed down the hall towards the bathroom.

Gritting her teeth, Faith leaned against the wall. She liked Drew well enough, but she wasn't really in the mood for small talk. Not when she'd been working her butt off all night with Nadira's squad and he'd been sitting on her couch working on his latest novel attempt, or whatever other code Andrew used to pretend he wasn't playing League of Legends.

"I know you heard me," came the second call, and then footsteps followed her into the hallway. Still dressed much like a high schooler, Andrew carried a notebook in the crook of one elbow and looked almost as bleary-eyed as Faith felt. Huh. Perhaps he had been writing after all.

"Rough night?" he asked, taking in her bedraggled appearance.

"You could say that. How's the book coming along?"

Andrew shrugged, his normally spiky hair flopping down onto his forehead. "In bits and pieces. Didn't end up getting too much done tonight."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Working the Slayer crisis hotline."

Faith pushed off her exhaustion long enough to focus on that last sentence. She had forgotten that it was Andrew's turn to man the metaphorical emergency phones, another of the innovations brought about by the younger generation of Slayers. To be frank, it sounded like something that had Dawn's fingerprints all over it. Or Lily's. It was definitely the kind of thing that Lily and Becka would have campaigned for. "Anything come up?"

"Not anything unusual – identity crises, some new demon subspecies that didn't die when they were supposed to, a couple of girls who'd just broken up with their boyfriends and needed a shoulder to cry on."

The Slayer's eyebrows climbed steadily higher. "And you're qualified for the relationship advice?"

"It's mostly listening," said Andrew, watching her with more intensity than she found comfortable. "You okay?"

"Five by five."

"Uh huh." He was unconvinced. "Want me to run down to the 24-hour place on the corner and get you some muscle relaxant?"

Reluctantly accepting the inevitable, Faith nodded. "It's that obvious?"

"Scuttlebutt has it that you've had a busy night, and you've been standing a little funny for the past few minutes. Besides, I'm a writer, remember? That means I'm more observant than your average human."

"Heh." The Slayer snorted. "Whatever you say, more-than-average human. Can you get me some coffee while you're at it? Good stuff, not the usual crap we brew around here."

It was Andrew's turn to raise his eyebrows. "Coffee? Shouldn't you be going to sleep or something?"

"In a couple of hours." Faith had just remembered something important. "I promised to talk to a friend in the States tonight."

"A friend?" pressed Andrew. "Which one?"

"Dean," said Faith shortly. The dull ache alongside her spine was working its way up from a solid three into something much closer to a six. She needed to get into the shower and down prescription-strength pain meds before it got any worse. Blinking heavily, she ran a hand over her face, pressing in against her cheekbones, allowing the new pain to distract her. "He and his brother are working a haunting out near Des Moines, and he wanted to check in when they finished up tonight."

"So are we talking a phone call, a Skype date, what?"

The excitement in his tone woke Faith up enough to remind her of prudence. " _We're_  not talking anything, Drew," she corrected without heat. " _I_  am getting all this muck from the Thames and the Serpentine off of me.  _You_  are going on a Bengay, food, and coffee run."

Pushing her body away from the wall, the Slayer resumed her slow course towards the bathroom. "Where's Angel, by the way?" she wondered aloud.

"Dunno. He was in the study, earlier. Said he had something to look up. That was like, three hours ago? Haven't seen him since."

"Right." Of course Angel was in the study. It was the most Angel-y place to be.

Slightly aware that her thoughts were becoming more and more disjointed, Faith locked the bathroom door behind her and began unpeeling her layers of river mud-stained clothing. She watched the dirty jeans and the almost unrecognizable socks drop onto the linoleum in a haze of fatigue. At some point, a serious load of laundry was in order. Still, that would have to wait until she wasn't seeing double of everything.

While waiting for the bathtub to fill, the Slayer worked her hair-tie free from the tangled strands that had knotted around it. She scrubbed and scrubbed at her hands in the bathroom sink until at least two-thirds of the dirt from under her fingernails was cleared. Then Faith sank into the welcoming water, its temperature a fraction cooler than scalding. Straightening her legs as far as she could, she leaned against the porcelain side of the bathtub, submerging her entire body except for her face.

She had half-fallen asleep when someone knocked urgently on the bathroom door. "Faith. Faith." It was the fangéd boy wonder himself.

"Go away," Faith groaned, closing her eyes. "Faith's not here."

"Faith. I need to talk to you," hissed the vampire, who had not lost any of his urgency.

"So talk."

Angel drew in a great huffing breath of air, for effect rather than out of necessity. From the embrace of her bath, Faith suppressed the urge to snicker. Spike was right; his grandsire could be such a drama queen.

"What do you want, Angel?"

"How long is Andrew planning on staying here?" he asked in a tight voice.

"I don't know," replied the Slayer honestly. "Why? Is he bothering you?"

"Not bothering, per se. He's just always here, always in the living room, always on the couch. It's just a little much."

Faith sighed, already missing the peace of her alone time. "I'll talk to him, okay? I'll see if he can't get more involved with Nadira and her Slayers, do a little less writing."

"I don't care about the writing. That's fine. But why can't he do it at a café like a normal person and not on our couch?"

"Angel, you realize that technically it's  _my_  couch? Since Giles left this place to me? Not to us. Anyway, it's whatever. I'll talk to him, on one condition."

"What?" said Angel, a bit of sensible hesitation lurking beneath his usual equanimity.

"Can you make me breakfast?" She'd also sent Andrew for food, but second breakfast never hurt anyone. Especially not when that anyone happened to be a Slayer who'd just pulled a twelve-hour shift.

"Omelette okay?"

"Omelette would be fantastic." Faith could see it now, the sumptuous amounts of cheese leaking out from in between the edges of egg, the plethora of vegetables that Angel somehow managed to sneak in and even more miraculously managed to make taste halfway decent.

"Half an hour?"

The Slayer took a brief moment to consider the current temperature of the water and the probable timing of Andrew's return. "Yeah, I should be out by then. Thanks."

"Anytime. As long as you can get Andrew out of the flat more, we're five by five."

"Angel?"

"Yes?"

"That's my line. Don't use it."

"Okay. Omelette in thirty?"

"Yeah." As the vampire's quiet footfalls faded into silence, Faith relaxed again into her bath. She had half an hour. In fifteen minutes or so, she'd reach for the shampoo or the soap. But for right now, she just wanted to rest, allowing the hot water to draw tension out of her and wash it away like the dirt coating her wrists and elbows. Wrapping her arms around her stomach, the Slayer yawned, and her eyelids slowly fluttered closed.

* * *

**April 4th, 2009, Newton, Iowa, 12:30 a.m., Central Time Zone**

"Dude, this is . . . This is just freaking insane."

Sam looked up from his computer screen to glance over at his older brother, who was still sprawled out on his motel bed, surrounded by half a dozen trade paperbacks, flipping through the dog-eared pages of one entitled  _The Benders._  His features were twisted into an expression somewhere between horror and disbelief.

"You said that already." The younger Winchester checked a running tally of tic marks in the top right corner of his current page of notes. "Six times going on seven, actually. Why do you keep reading those if they're so freaking insane?"

"First off, for the record, I'm not reading, I'm skimming. Second, it's way less creepy than those fan sites you're looking at."

"I'm not 'looking' at them. I'm doing research, Dean."

"Still . . ." Dean shuddered. "You find an address for that publisher yet?"

"Getting there. The printing house itself is almost as obscure as the books."

"I just wanna see if this Carver Edlund, whoever he is, always gets things right. Sure, he wrote about Cassie, but what about the rest of it? Dude's got to have messed up somewhere. And what's with the title of these, anyway?  _Supernatural_? No wonder they didn't sell, crap title like that."

"Huh." Sam cleared his throat. "Apparently, according to the forums, paranormal romance is in vogue right now."

"What's romantic about our lives?" demanded Dean, flipping through the next five pages. "I mean, I don't know if you've noticed, but neither of us has what you'd call a history of lasting success in the romance department. Jess, Cassie, Madison . . . It never ends well, does it?"

"Well, other than the Sam-slash-Dean girls –"

"Don't you bring that up again. So frigging creepy." Dean shuddered again, more for effect this time.

Sam couldn't say that he disagreed. "Yeah, anyways, besides them, there seems to be a small but vocal contingent who argue about you being in a relationship with someone referred to by what has to be some kind of nickname or title. I haven't found an actual name for her on any of these sites, though."

"Simpatico got anything to say about that?" The older hunter turned the page.

Oh, great. Another three page expository glimpse into his little brother's navel gazing while Dean flirted with some waitress or hit the head in some dive bar. Dean wasn't sure why he kept reading these. He already knew that the navel gazing happened. Still, it was kind of interesting. He wondered vaguely if this was actually what Sam thought to himself when he was killing time.

"You still going off on that Simpatico guy?"

"What?" Dean shrugged without taking his eyes away from the book. "He doesn't get to knock the demon storyline. Not when he didn't have to frigging live it."

"Fair enough. Uh, weirdly, Simpatico doesn't have anything to say about you and your mystery woman. Most of those posters seem to be a bit younger and write more like teenage girls. There's one guy who's decently articulate – writes under the name Star-Lord."

"Star-Lord? These people just keep getting weirder and weirder," Dean muttered under his breath.

"Yeah, I'd say that's an accurate assessment."

For the next ten minutes, both brothers read without commentary. Sam scrolled through page after page of fan forums in hopes of finding insider information on Carver Edlund in one of the spoiler threads while Dean relived the murderous insanity of the Bender clan. When he came across an unexpected passage, he broke the silence.

"Hey, Sam. Listen to this. 'As Pa Bender placed the searing poker against Dean's t-shirt, the glowing hot metal charred through cotton and skin. Dean screamed in pain. In the back of his mind, in that small corner that was completely removed from the situation, he wished that things had gone down differently in Ohio. If there were three of them, if the brown eyed girl had been able to make it to Minnesota, he had a feeling that none of this would be happening.'"

Dean broke off and looked across the room towards his brother. "This is freaking insane," he reiterated for the eighth time.

"You finally came across her, then? Brown Eyed Girl? According to this one forum, the first time she's mentioned is in  _The Benders_. She doesn't come up again until  _Bloodlust_ , where Dean reflects after the altercation with Gordon that the Brown Eyed Girl would have given him an earful about refusing to believe Sam about a vampire not being completely evil. After that, she tends to appear pretty frequently in Dean's inner monologues. Star-Lord does a detailed character assessment in one long post, compiling everything that's known about her from the books with everything that's been hazarded by fans."

"What do they say?" The hunter wasn't sure if he actually wanted to know.

Sam shot his older brother an appraising glance. "Well, in brief, there are four opposing view points. Some people think that the Brown Eyed Girl is Dean's way of referring to Cassie without actually having to name her. Others think that she's Lisa Braeden, who also gets mentioned later in, uh,  _Fresh Blood_ , or something."

Stretching his arms above his head, he continued, "There's a third camp that thinks she's some unnamed female hunter that Dean got mixed up with before the books started. And then there's a group who argues for the Brown Eyed Girl being Dean's inner Jiminy Cricket, a figment of his imagination or a representation of the female aspect of his psyche, rather than an actual person."

Dean's eyebrows reached nearly all the way up to his hairline. "The female aspect of my psyche? You're kidding me, right? People don't actually believe that kind of psychobabble."

His brother shrugged. "Despite its infighting, the Supernatural fandom is apparently a very diverse place where openness to ideas is celebrated – at least that's the tagline of one of the forum sites. Doesn't quite seem that way from the actual posting . . ."

"That's . . . That's . . ."

"Freaking insane?" supplied Sam, his pen poised to add another tally to the list.

"I wasn't going to say that," Dean hedged.

"Sure you weren't."

"I was going to say, it's pretty obvious, isn't it? Who she is."

"Brown Eyed Girl?"

"Yeah. It's Faith."

Purposefully keeping his gaze on his laptop, Sam said neutrally, "That's the conclusion I came to, when they mentioned her apparent connection with Ohio and her knowledge of hunting. Definitely not the female aspect of your psyche. It's funny . . ."

"Huh?"

"From what I've read, the most controversial thing about the Brown Eyed Girl is the omission of her name. And, honestly, it's kind of weird. With everything else, like you said, it's all in there. Sex, nudity, internal conflict, something the fans refer to as 'manpain,' . . . Whoever this Carver Edlund is, wherever he's getting his information, he doesn't spare anything. It all goes into the books. Except for naming Faith."

"Mmph," replied Dean noncommittally.

"It makes no sense. I mean, the best potential explanation is that he's foreshadowing something or trying to build up some tension for when Brown Eyed Girl actually makes a physical appearance in the series. Which isn't going to happen now, since they stopped publishing."

"Thank God," grumbled Dean. "I don't know either, Sam. It sounds . . ."

"Freaking insane?"

"Sure. Whatever. Just add it to the list of questions we're gonna ask Carver Edlund when we track him down."

Sam closed his laptop and stood up from the desk. His left leg had started falling asleep, and he needed to get moving before the weird tingling numbness morphed into full-on pins and needles. "It's getting late. I'm gonna step out for a Coke, see if I can't power through the next few websites. There's gotta be some information on that publisher somewhere. You want anything?"

"Nah." Dean abandoned  _The Benders_ , tossing it onto the floor with the rest of the paperbacks that he'd tried skimming. "I'm just gonna give Faith a quick call and pass out. She was supposed to be part of some joint Slayer task force this weekend."

"How's she doing?" inquired Sam, reaching for his jacket and shoving one of his yardstick arms through the sleeves.

Surprised, his brother glanced up from pulling his phone out of his pocket. "You actually want to know?"

"Yeah. If she's your Jiminy Cricket, there's not much point in me not liking her, is there?" He zipped up his jacket. "Tell her I say hi?"

"Yeah."

"You gonna tell her about the books?"

Dean shook his head. "Not until we get more information. Then I'll tell her the whole story."

"Cool." One hand on the doorknob, Sam discretely fingered the silver flask in his jacket pocket. "See you in a minute."

Phone to his ear, the call already dialing out, Dean nodded but said nothing. The door opened and closed behind the other hunter, but he wasn't paying too much attention. "Hello? Faith? Hey, sorry this's so late. How's London?"


	76. Brown Eyed Girl, pt 4

* * *

**April 11th, 2009, London, England, 7:15 p.m.**

"Can I ask you a question?"

Buried beneath her giant navy down comforter, Faith rolled over onto her stomach. The Slayer kicked her legs aimlessly, her shins bouncing against the edge of her queen-sized mattress, her toes peeking out from under the hem of the duvet. Still lost somewhere in that dreamy realm halfway between sleeping and waking, she had been startled from a long and well-deserved late afternoon nap by the sound of her phone ringing.

"Go ahead," said Faith with a yawn, wrapping her duvet even tighter around herself. "I might even answer it."

Dean didn't take the proffered bait for banter. Instead, in a carefully neutral tone that almost sounded anxious, he said, "Remember how I told you Sam and I were working a vengeful spirit job in Iowa?"

"Yeah, I remember. I'm old, but I'm not quite old enough for Alzheimer's, you know."

"We-ell, the thing is, it got a little complicated."

This was nearly enough to convince Faith to sit up and pay complete attention, but the warm layers of air between her and the comforter were too mind-numbingly pleasant. "What happened?" she asked as she stifled a yawn

The hunter fell back on a Winchester standard: answering a question with another question. "You ever hear of a book series called  _Supernatural_?"

"It sounds vaguely familiar." The Slayer chewed thoughtfully on her lip. "Hang on a sec – yeah, actually, I have. Becka and Lily mentioned it the other day, as being something that all the Slayer Trek: the Next Generation are obsessed with."

"Sh-t," Dean swore, and he didn't stop there.

Faith let him ramble on. She hadn't heard quite such impressive profanity since the last time Spike had swung by for a visit. After the third instance of 'this is frakking great,' however, she decided to intercede. "Dude. What's the deal? It's a good thing there aren't any children present – I'd have to wash your mouth out with soap."

"I'd like to see you try," shot back Dean without thinking. Then he hastily corrected himself. "I mean, uh, don't try. You're like the one person who'd actually succeed."

"Damn straight," replied Faith comfortably. "So tell me, cowboy – what about these books has got you all riled up?"

"You've never read them, then," the hunter said flatly.

"Young adult fiction – it's not really my thing. Heh," Faith chuckled. "Reading itself isn't really my thing, not unless it's for research or one of those cheap crime thrillers. Occasionally Harry Potter," she added. "Or Sherlock Holmes – those tend to be pretty short."

Exasperated, Dean exhaled heavily into the phone. "You believe in prophets?" he demanded.

"Profits? Like money?"

"No. Like Moses."

The Slayer returned to chewing on the inside of her cheek. "I'd never thought about it, to be honest. I mean, I guess so. I believe in oracles – Angel's used them before – and Cordy used to get visions from the Powers That Be, and I don't know if the Watcher's Council could ever operate without their ridiculous amounts of prophecies . . . So yeah, I guess I believe in prophets."

"Sam and I, this last case we were on, we met a prophet."

"He set any shrubbery on fire?"

"No. Although if you lit a match and he breathed on it, his whole house would'a gone up in flames."

"A prophet in need of drying out? Can't say that I've heard that one before. Anyway, what's this all got to do with your case and those books?"

"Chuck – that's the prophet – well, he didn't realize he was a prophet. Guess the big vision-senders upstairs forgot to include the five minute introductory video. You know, the one where they're like, 'Welcome to propheting.' So he had no idea that his visions were real. And he decided to try and make money off of them by turning them into creepy ghost-filled thrillers."

"They any good?"

"According to Sam, the writing style isn't the absolute worst, but that's not the point. Aren't you going to ask me what he was writing about?"

Faith flopped over onto her back and stared up at the dark reaches of the ceiling, her eyes jumping from bits of popcorned texture on the plaster above. The light was too dim for her to pick out much detail. Not for the last time, she wished she had put some of those glow-in-the-dark stars up. It would be nice to watch them, since London was far too bright for her to see actual stars most nights. Not unless she broke into a planetarium or something. "I figured you'd get to it when you were ready."

"He wrote about us," said Dean shortly. "Me, Sam, Dad, Bobby . . . From the night I went and got Sam at Stanford. It's all in there – ol' Yellow Eyes, Dad's death, Mom and Jess burning on the ceiling, Cassie, Ruby, Bella, Sam dying, me going to Hell – all of it."

Finally, here was something that woke Faith up, like a cooler full of ice water had just been poured all over her head. She unwound from her duvet cocoon, sliding over the side of the mattress to sit cross-legged on the thick gray carpet. "Holy sh-t," she muttered before launching into a tirade of profanity even bluer than Dean's. "Everything?"

"Yeah. From Sam's inner monologues to me stripping down with Cassie – he didn't spare any of the details."

"Did you kill him?"

"The prophet? Chuck?"

"Uh huh."

"No," Dean admitted after a significant pause. "No, I didn't kill him. I didn't believe it at first, that any of it was real. Then Cass popped by, told us he was a prophet, that he was writing the Winchester Gospel."

Faith winced. "G-d. That sounds pompous."

"Right. So, no, after that, best Sam and I could settle for was getting him to swear not to try to publish any more of the stuff."

"He's still writing?"

"Yep. Just hasn't been able to punish any of them since I got back from downstairs. Guess they weren't exactly best-sellers."

A moment passed while Faith attempted to assimilate all this information into a semi-manageable structure. "G-d," she repeated at length. "Dean, that's . . . awful. I honestly can't imagine . . . Creepy . . . Invasive . . ."

Dean snorted. "You have no idea. It's been almost a week, and I still feel violated. Just thinking about it feels like something's bad-touching me."

The Slayer shuddered. "Yeah . . . If you want, I'll put in a word with Slayers Revisited and see if I can't get the books banned or something from the Babysitters Club."

"Doubt it'll help," mumbled Dean morosely. "Really wish the quality of those things was worse . . . If the writing sucked, fewer people would read it."

"Still . . . I'll talk to Lily. Maybe use some of Giles' old money to buy up all the copies on Amazon and burn them?"

"I wouldn't argue if you did." The hunter hesitated, then pressed on, "You've got a cameo appearance, by the way."

"Frak. I do?"

"Yeah. You're, uh, well, in the books Chuck refers to you as the 'brown eyed girl,' or 'Dean's brown eyed girl.' Never uses your name, though."

"You sure it's me, then? Not some other random brunette chick?" joked Faith hopefully.

"Oh, it's you, all right," replied Dean in a dark tone. "No doubt about that."

"So what do I do in this cameo? Kick some ass, take some names, break some hearts?"

"It's . . ." he paused. "Not even a real cameo, I guess. Just me thinking about you. Remembering advice, wishing you were there, that kind of thing."

"You wish I was there?" Faith wondered, half teasing, half not.

Even in the silence, she could hear Dean rolling his eyes. "Of course I do. Who else remembers to get the frigging pie?"

"Sam still forgetting?"

"It's like he's got some kind of pie amnesia. Pie-nesia? I'll work on that. I, uh, asked Chuck about it – if you were who I thought you were, what he knew, why he didn't use your name."

Sudden anxiety burned like acid in the pit of the Slayer's stomach. "And?"

"You can relax. He's only ever seen you around me. He doesn't know what a Slayer actually is, just thinks it's some kind of female hunting school or something. Said that he would've used your name, but the first time he saw you was right after he'd published an installment in the series called 'Faith,' and it would have been a little derivative."

"Why not change my name?"

"Chuck says he tries to stick to the authenticity of the process."

"That's a load of bullsh-t."

"Basically. But, uh, now he thinks it adds an increased element of drama and potential foreshadowing to the whole thing. I think he just enjoys being a douche."

"Wouldn't be the first guy that did."

"Anyway . . . You're safe. He promised that he'll leave you out of his writing as much as possible."

"That's . . . good. Thanks for looking out for me."

His voice restrained, the hunter said, "No thanks necessary. It's what we do."

It  _was_  what they did, Faith reflected, reaching back up to the mattress to drag her duvet down to cover her bare legs. Someone was running the A/C a little higher than it needed to be. When this call ended, she'd have to go have a little chit-chat with Andrew or Angel about energy expenditures. "Still, thanks," she echoed.

"Like I said," repeated Dean, "looking out for each other, it's what we do."

Something in his tone set off mildly flashing warning signals in the Slayer's head. "Dean, is everything okay over there? I mean, besides the total mind-frak of these Supernatural books?"

"Five by five."

"You know I can tell you're lying, right? I've known you for going on six years, here. My B.S.-meter is finally attuned to Winchester."

The hunter swallowed loudly. "Everything's fine. Nothing outta the ordinary – Cass, Lilith, the sixty-six fracking seals . . . The regular stuff."

"Dean . . ."

"I gotta go – Sam's due back any minute. He ran out to get some new part for his computer or something. Software update, maybe?"

"Dean –"

"I mean it, Faith. I'm fine. I'll call you in a couple of days, okay?"

"Okay." Faith inhaled and decided to risk it. "I miss you."

"Yeah. Miss you, too." He swallowed again. "What I said earlier, about wishing you were here. I do, you know. Wish you were here."

* * *

Hardly had the line clinched off, ending her phone call with Dean, when Faith was scrolling through her contacts, hitting 'call' with no regard for the expense of the international minutes she was burning through.

Her target picked up on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, Lil," said Faith in a voice of steel, smiling in a way that bared far too many teeth. "Get Becka. It's time the three of us had a little talk."

Had the Slayer been a little more self-aware, a little less pissed, she might would have noticed the urgency and mild fear in the girls' voices. As it was, she waited until both of them were on the line, and then sprang her trap.

"Brown eyed girl, huh?" she drawled with deceptive innocence.

"Oh," said Lily.

"Sh-t," said Becka.

"That's what I thought," said Faith.

"We didn't start –"

"Tried to discourage – "

"Thought it was completely wrong –"

"Invasion of privacy –"

"So what if you and Dean have –"

"A little unfinished business –"

"Gossip is bad, and it's not our place –"

"Told them to stop –"

"Sent a mass email –"

"Convinced Dawn to help – "

"I mean, there's no real excuse for –"

"Like we told them, even if you were –"

"Everyone has a secret boyfriend these days –"

"Why force things into a socio-normative construct –"

"What's normal, anyways?"

"I guess curiosity is normal –"

"Still, no excuse –"

"Even if you have questions –"

"Or want things to happen –"

"That's no justification –"

"You don't write fanfiction about it."

Faith held up a hand to stop the Abbott and Costello routine and belatedly realized that they couldn't see her. She coughed, hard and loud, into the phone instead, a poor second. The girls quieted instantly. "Did you say  _fan fiction_?" she hissed with silken menace.

"Sh-t," said Lily.

"Frak," said Becka.

" _Who_?" demanded Faith.

She heard a quiet exhalation and could practically see the look of tense conjecture passing between the two seniors. "Who?"

Air whistled through pursed lips. "Andrew started – ow!"

A thunk as Lily whacked her in the arm. "Beck! We don't snitch."

"This's Faith. We do snitch."

"Andrew, huh? Thanks for the heads up."

"Faith –"

"I'll catch you later." The Slayer hung up her phone and dropped it onto the duvet. "I've got work to do."

* * *

Faith stalked into the living room, a lion in search of her prey. Her tangled brown hair was knotted around an elastic at the baste of her neck, and her tawny eyes blazed with fire.

"Andrew!" she snarled as she kicked the video game controller out of his hand and sent it spinning into the opposite wall. "What the hell have you been doing?"

Cowering, the writer curled into a ball on the couch, pulling his arms and legs in out of her reach. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" he babbled. "I'll go buy more."

Momentarily stymied, the Slayer shook her head. "What?"

Angel poked his nose out from the kitchen, a mug in his hand and a faint reddish tinge spreading out across his upper lip. "I doubt this is about the Hot Pockets," he commented with a smirk. The vampire strolled easily past the Slayer, who was a fraction away from vibrating with rage. Still smirking, he seated himself in Giles' giant wingback armchair and raised the cup of O negative to his lips.

"You ate my frigging Hot Pockets?" demanded an irate Faith.

"Yes?" squeaked Andrew, and he lifted one of the throw cushions over his head to protect himself.

"Son of a bi-"

"Please don't hurt me."

"Please  _do_  hurt him," muttered Angel in an undertone.

Faith crossed her arms over her stomach, pinioning her fists between her elbows and her ribs. Just in case she got tempted. Just so she didn't get carried away.

She addressed the more minor infraction first. "Drew, you owe me two new boxes of Hot Pockets. Today. One ham and cheese, one pizza. Am I clear?"

The Watcher nodded frantically.

"Good. Second, you need to either move out or start paying rent. Clean up my damn sitting room and get a job, or get the hell out. You've got three days, or I'll let Angel here give you a neck massage – with his teeth."

Andrew whimpered. Angel grimaced.

"Three days isn't enough time!"

"You think I'd eat  _him_? Please. I'd catch Star Trek or something."

"You can't catch Star Trek, Captain Forehead. It's a piece of classic television and popular culture, not hepatitis C, you overgrown –"

"Both of you shut it. I'm not finished yet. Third," the Slayer's voice dropped back into menace, and she took another step closer to the black leather couch. "Andrew. Have you been writing stories about me? About me and Dean? And then posting them online?"

He glanced up at her through the gaps between his fingers. "Yes?"

The single word was barely a whisper. Andrew shrank beneath her unrelenting gaze. It scoured him, scorched him, and reminded him that if she lost control, if he pushed her over the edge, she could snap every bone in his body without breaking a sweat.

A muscle twitching in her cheek, Faith stared down at him. For a long moment, she clenched and unclenched her fists before spinning on her heel. The Slayer stormed down the hallway, reaching for her leather jacket and her favorite pair of Doc Martens.

"I'm going out!" she bellowed over her shoulder. "You'd better have rent money for me by the time I get back – the both of you!"

Wrenching the flat door open, she took off into the hallway, charging down the fire stairs, pushing out into the night air at the bottom, loping along the cracked concrete. She had no idea where she was going – never knew where she was going. Only knew that she had to run.

* * *

**April 25th, 2009, Tuscaloosa, Alabama, 12:20 a.m.**

"A  _brother?!"_

"Geez. You sound surprised."

"Well, yeah. Weren't you?"

Dean relaxed down across the front seat of his baby. His boots braced agaisnt the passenger door, his nose inches from the steering wheel, he tugged his leather jacket up and over his shoulders. "Couldn't believe it. I was sure it was a trap – and it was, just not how I excepted."

"Mmm. Tell me?"

"It's complicated."

"I could use a good bedtime story."

"Isn't like six a.m. where you are?"

"Yeah. But I could fall back asleep. Talk to me, pretty boy. Tell me about him."

"His name was Adam . . . Adam Milligan. And – and, he was my little brother."

* * *

**May 8th, 2009, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 4:53 p.m.**

"Hey."

"Hey. You and Sam still planning on coming out for graduation? They're both this weekend."

"We can't."

"Oh, okay." A brief pause. "Dean, what's going on? You sound like hell."

"I think I might be killing Sam."

"What?"

Dean gulped for air. "He wasn't just working with Ruby, Faith. Or screwing her. He was drinking her blood."

"Oh, sh-t. That's not good."

The hunter sank into one of Bobby's lumpy old chairs. "We were on a hunt – well, Cass's vessel - meat suit – this guy named Jimmy – was in trouble. We took down all the demons, and then I look over, and Sam's got his face buried in one of the demon meatsuit's necks. An', and then he looks up, and he's just . . . covered in blood. I thought I was gonna be sick."

"And now?"

"Got him in Boby's cellar – gonna have to dry him out the hard way."

"Want me to grab a car and –"

"No. It's . . . There's nothing you can do. It's just . . . What if . . . what if I'm killing him?"

She asked gently, "You want to stop?"

"I can't, Faith. I can't. Even if it kills him, I can't . . . can't let him turn into a monster."

"God, Dean."

"Tell Lily and Becka that we're sorry about missing them. We'll, uh, have to do something to make it up to them, okay? Tell the girls I'll, uh, take 'em out for dinner in a few weeks or something. If they're still around."

"I will. Dean, if you change your mind, I'm a phone call and quick drive away, okay? Any time, day or night. Cleveland's not that far away."

"Yeah. I, I know. Thank you."

* * *

**May 12th, 2009, Cold Spring, Minnesota, 10:14 p.m**

_You don't know me. You never did. And you never will._

_You walk out that door, don't you ever come back._

The hunter lay in the wreckage of the honeymoon suite, gasping for air. Tears trickled out of the corner of his eyes and leaked into his ears. Snot dripped from his nose, but he was too exhausted to wipe it away. Everything ached and burned, and there was a gaping hole in his gut that Dean didn't think would ever, ever heal.

He dug his phone out of his pocket with shaking fingers and drew gusts of air in through protesting lungs as the call rang out.

_Please pick up,_  he thought with that small part of his mind that wasn't howling in wordless misery. _Come on. Please._

She did. "Dean?" Partially drowned out by the noise of a cheering crowd, her voice was sharp, attentive, concerned. "You okay?"

"No."

"Do I . . . Want me to . . . Should I come get you?"

"No." He forced himself to breathe. "I just need a minute. Sam's gone."

"He's . . . dead?" Faith was horrified.

"Gone. Took off with Ruby. We fought . . . He choked me . . . Didn't think he was gonna stop."

The noise of the crowd faded, until it was just the two of them, both breathing heavily into the phone.

"Talk to me?" grunted Dean as a fresh wave of pain swamped him. "Please. I . . . I don't care what. Graduation or Slayer drama or Puff the magic frigging dragon. I just need to get through the next few minutes."

"Dean, are you bleeding? Is anything broken?" asked the Slayer urgently. A toilet flushed somewhere nearby.

"'M fine. Couple cuts, nothing serious. Just hurts. Talk. Please."

"Okay." The Slayer took a moment to think, and then with a deep breath, she began:

"Once upon a time, there was a girl named Faith, who was super hot and had superpowers. But that wasn't enough, because she was also angry and bitter and lonely and broken. She was lost, trying to find her way in a world where it seemed like everything was out to get her and no one could be trusted. A world where it was use or be used, and people only valued her for what she could do for them. And then . . ." The Slayer's voice trailed off.

"Yeah?" pressed Dean with a weak cough.

"One night, everything changed." She was talking more quietly now, soothing and gentle, lilting and kind. "Faith met someone, and her world would never be the same."

"Who?" prompted the hunter, just to keep her talking. As long as she talked, he could forget. As long as she talked, he could narrow in on her words, allow her voice to fill his ears, her face to fill his mind's eye, until everything that hurt – even Sam – was drowned out by her.

"Faith met a man named Dean – just as hot as she was, just as angry, a little less lonely, and a lot less broken. She met him, and she didn't notice or realize what he was. But I guess the world realized it owed her a break – owed both of them a break. Because they met again."

She sniffed. "And one day, Faith found herself, for the first time, being around somebody who understood her, who knew her to the bone. For the first time, she didn't have to plan for betrayal; she could just  _be_. For the first time, here was somebody she knew wouldn't screw her over to get ahead. For the first time, Faith had a friend."


	77. Long Ago and Far Away, pt 1

**June 2nd, 2009, Cleveland, Ohio, 2:15 a.m.**

Eyes gritty with exhaustion, Dean squeezed his baby into the narrow parking space between a familiar Dodge Intrepid on the left and some junker red pick-up on the right. Shifting into park, he turned the key in the ignition and slumped back against the leather upholstery, his hand dropping down to rest momentarily on the knee of his filthy jeans. They weren't the only thing that was dirty; the hunter was entirely out of clean clothes. He'd have to do laundry tomorrow – well, later today, really.

For a few minutes, he simply sat there, staring at the dark sidewalk through his windshield without truly seeing it. Then Dean forced himself to get moving. The sooner he got up, the sooner he could pass out. His motions slow, like a man wading through a thick fog, the hunter lifted his duffel out of the backseat and walked up to Faith's apartment. He rang the doorbell once.

Barely had the electric echoing noise of the doorbell died away when the three deadbolts behind the door clicked as their bolts slid back, one by one. The heavy door was pulled inward into the apartment, and before Dean knew it, someone had grabbed the front of his button-down shirt and yanked him inside. She had been expecting him.

A pair of relentlessly curious brown eyes scrutinized him as Faith locked each of the deadbolts and turned off the entryway lights. "You look like crap."

"Yeah." There was no arguing with that observation. Dean looked her up and down, taking in the faded plaid pajama bottoms and the ribbed black camisole. "No Slaying tonight?"

With a giant yawn that threatened to split her skull in two, the woman shook her head. "No. I'm off-duty. Was just about to call it a night." She turned, pacing past him into the living room and then down along the carpeted hallway that led to her room. Realizing that he was not following, Faith glanced at him over her shoulder. "You coming?"

The hunter let his duffel strap slide out of his hands. "Couch is fine."

"You sleep on that thing, you'll wake up with a cricked neck – springs got broken during Becka's graduation party, and I haven't had the chance to replace it. Trust me, you don't want to sleep there."

"All right." Too tired to argue, Dean bent over to unlace his boots. As the door closed behind Faith, he toed off his shoes. Taking in the dried blood and dirt that liberally coated his jeans, the hunter removed those as well. Clad in boxers and his thin undershirt, he knocked once and strode into the Slayer's bedroom.

The lights were off, and already Faith seemed no more than a person-shaped lump on the far side of the bed, sprawled out on her stomach, the thick white comforter drawn up nearly over her head. When Dean slipped between the covers, he had to bite back a moan of half-relief, half-pain. Driving and sleeping in his car for the last two days straight had done a number on his lower back, and his spine ached at finally being straightened out once more.

Hands resting on the mattress at his sides, the hunter yawned as his eyelids fluttered shut. His mind was still reeling in its attempts to process the events of the last few weeks, but that could wait until morning.

* * *

It was nearly eleven o'clock when the scent of bacon drew Dean out of his coma-like slumber. As the savory odor permeated its way through his nostrils and into his brain, the hunter rolled over and almost fell off the bed. The room was vacant, empty, and Spartan clean, the floor spotless with the exception of a white plastic laundry basket piled high with folded clothing that he belatedly recognized as his own.

Raising his eyebrows, Dean wandered out of the bedroom. He found Faith in the kitchen, flipping pancakes and monitoring a skillet of sizzling bacon.

"Morning," said the Slayer easily as she tugged at the hem of her Case Western Reserve t-shirt. "You like chocolate chip, right?" She gestured to her pancake skillet.

"Who doesn't?" He eyed the food regretfully, then added, "I'm gonna clean up real quick – ten minutes?"

"Take as long as you want. Breakfast'll wait."

"Yeah. Thanks for the laundry, by the way."

"You're welcome," Faith replied absent-mindedly. She yanked open her cutlery drawer in search of a fork for the bacon. "Figured you could use the extra shut-eye."

She wasn't half-wrong, Dean reflected, grabbing a set of clean clothes and hurrying into the bathroom for the world's fastest shower and shave.

By the time he returned, the table was set with a glorious platter of bacon in the center, glistening with grease, two glasses of milk, and half a dozen pancakes stacked on each plate. The Slayer was standing on tiptoe to scrounge in one of the cabinets for a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's.

Plopping his rear end into a chair, Dean whistled his appreciation. "Smells great."

"Dig in," said Faith, adding the syrup and a jar of peanut butter to the spread.

No need to tell him twice. The hunter set to. In less than sixty seconds, he scarfed his first two pancakes and washed them down with a third of the glass of milk. Dean wiped the remnants of his milk mustache off of his upper lip and looked across the table at Faith, who was eating with just as much appreciation, if a little less gusto.

"Okay." He started in on his third pancake. "What's on your mind?"

"Huh?"

"Come on, Faith. You can drop the innocent act. You've fed me, you did my laundry, so I guess you've more than earned the right to your curiosity. Spit it out. What do you want to know?"

She glanced up at him through her eyelashes, and Dean could almost see thoughts scrawled across her forehead as she finished chewing and swallowed her mouthful of bacon. When she spoke, it was with an air of selecting her words carefully.

"What's going on, Dean?" she asked, a hint of wariness peeking through her casual tone. "Where's Sam? You didn't say much when you called yesterday. Just wanted to know if I was in town."

Dean rested his fork on his plate, heedless of the golden drops of syrup smeared across his nose. "Can this wait?" he demanded point-blank. "I'd rather not talk about it."

Faith merely raised an eyebrow and flipped a few extra pieces of bacon from the platter onto his plate. "Talk, Winchester."

"You're the worst, you know that?" But Dean was more than willing to be bribed with bacon.

"Sure. Just talk. By the way, you've got syrup on your nose. Here." The Slayer handed him a napkin.

He rubbed ineffectually at the sticky substance. "Where do you want me to start?" he sighed, giving up on the syrup.

"Start with Sam and Ruby. What happened?"

The hunter shrugged. "Ruby got Sam to kill Lilith before she could open the last seal. Only, it turns out that Lilith  _was_  the last seal. Killing her let the Devil out of his box." Watching the color drain out of her face made him feel slightly better.

"Whaaaat?"

"Yeah . . ." Dean stabbed his last remaining pancake. "Now that the Devil's out, both Heaven and Hell are full-speed ahead on this Apocalypse gig. And War – the real War, one of the four Horsemen – is riding around, and the angels want me to go full-on angel condom and be Michael's vessel. World's going to end, and I just . . . can't deal with it and deal with Sam. I don't . . . I don't trust him at my back. Not right now. He, uh, a couple of days ago, he suggested he take some time, try to straighten himself out. I didn't argue. And, uh, that's when I decided to come here."

Abruptly rising from the table, the Slayer crossed the kitchen in two strides. "Right," she said, lifting two glasses and a fifth of whiskey down from the cupboard over the sink and turning the heat up on the front burner on the stovetop. We need more food. And a hell of a lot more alcohol."

His cheeks stuffed to the brim with pancakes and bacon, puffing out like a chipmunk's, Dean reached for a pancake on the Slayer's plate, since his own was now empty. "Sounds good to me."

"After all," Faith batted his fork away and passed him a tumbler of whiskey, "it's five o'clock somewhere."

* * *

**June 6th, 2009, Cleveland, Ohio, 6:24 p.m.**

"Dean."

Her arms folded across her stomach, feet planted shoulder-width apart, Faith glared down at the six-one, a hundred and eighty-five pound lump draped on her couch. She prodded his knee with the toe of one stylishly-heeled boot. "Dean," she repeated more forcefully, taking in the collection of empty beer bottles and hamburger wrappers on her coffee table.

"Ugh," the man groaned, one arm wrapped around his head to shield his eyes from the overhead light.

"Get up," growled Faith with another tap of her boot, this time at his shoulder.

"Unnnnhhh?"

"Get up. It's almost half-past six. You've been sleeping all day."

"Go away," the hunter fired back, rolling onto his side so that his face was buried in the cushions along the couch back. He waved a hand in her general direction. "Leave me alone."

"Fine," she snapped. Faith stormed into the kitchen in search of her mop bucket. She was a hair's breadth away from losing her temper.

The week had started out all right. They had spent the entirety of that first day catching up, talking and drinking until they ran out of words. The next day, Lily and Becka had come over for lunch, and they cleared out half the city's cemeteries of vampires that night.

It had been amazing. Faith  _could_  patrol and work by herself. She did that all the time – in fact, she generally preferred it to working with an inexperienced Slayerette. But there was a little extra excitement when you had a partner, someone to walk through the night beside you. When there was someone at your six, someone who you could rely on to handle business and handle whatever nasty tried to creep up in your blind spot.

At first, it seemed like all Dean needed was a little extra R&R, just to build up new reserves of sleep and food and rest. Faith didn't begrudge him a couple of beers or even a sixpack. But then he stopped talking, really, just lost himself in a constant stream of alcohol and take-out and bad television.

She didn't quite know what his deal was. It was a four-way toss up between the Apocalypse or the Devil or his newfound supposed destiny as an angel vessel, or maybe just him pining for his brother. Either way, enough was enough, and even Faith's patience had its limits.

The Slayer gave up on finding her mop bucket. Instead, she filled a glass with ice water and returned to the living room.

"Dean," she warned a final time, tapping her fingernails against the plastic sides of the glass. "You need to get up."

"Go away," mumbled Dean.

"Okay," muttered the Slayer under her breath. "You asked for this."

She dumped the entire glass of frigid water and ice onto his head and then jumped backwards, dancing around the edge of the coffee table until she was out of arm's reach. Dean leapt to his feet, spluttering and cursing.

"What the hell was that for?" He used his sleeve to dry his face. The hunter's green eyes blazed. "What the hell?"

"We need to hit the road," stated Faith flatly. "Got a situation in London that needs dealing with. Flight leaves in two hours. Get cleaned up and pack a bag – we gotta be out of the door in twenty."

"I don't fly."

"Yeah? Well, you're going to have to this time." Faith turned on her heel and headed to her bedroom to finish packing.

Dean closed the distance between them, grabbing her shoulder and twisting her around to face him. "No. You don't get it. I. Don't. Fly."

"Don't touch me." The Slayer jerked herself loose. "You're gonna have to. Or else call your feathered friend Cass and get him to teleport you. 'Cause you're coming with me."

"Why? And I can't just call up Cass and ask him to do that. He won't."

"I'm not leaving you here to pickle your insides without company. I have to go to London, Dean. Angel's gotten himself in major trouble – again. It's not an optional thing for me. And I want you to come with."

His irritation beginning to cool, Dean grumbled, "To save my liver?"

"Well, yeah. But also because I need you. I mean, I could probably sort this whole thing out alone, but it'd be a thousand times easier, safer, and more fun with you there. Besides, don't you want a chance to kick some serious vampiric ass?"

"What do I tell Cass?"

"Dunno." Faith shrugged. "Lie to him?"

"I can't."

"Then tell him you've got a chance to check out an incomparable research library in the U.K. Unlimited access. See if we can find some Apocalypse-y handling suggestions."

"Faith – "

"I gotta pack. You do, too. So call Cass."

She disappeared into her bedroom, leaving a still-angry, still-confused, still-exhausted Dean in her wake. The hunter shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and stared up at the living room ceiling. This blew. He didn't know what he wanted, not really. Only that he didn't want her to walk out that front door and take off to England without him, once again leaving him behind.

"Castiel, if you've got your ears on, call me," he said to the blank ceiling, feeling incredibly ridiculous.

Almost instantaneously, the hunter's cell phone started ringing. He flipped it open. "Cass?"

"What is it, Dean?" inquired the gravelly voice of the angel. "Do you have any news on Lucifer? Are you and Sam all right?"

"Hey, Cass. Yeah, uh, everything's fine. How's the search for God?"

"I have yet to find anything specific, but I remain hopeful. There are a few promising suggestions. If everything is fine, why did you call?"

Crap. This was the part he had no idea how to handle. "Uh, Cass, can you still, uh, teleport and stuff?"

"Yes. Why? Do you need me? I can be there now if you do."

"Not, uh, not exactly. I, uh, . . . You remember my friend Faith?"

"The angry young woman who called herself a slayer? Yes, I do."

Dean winced at the description, relieved that Faith could only hear his end of the phone call. "Uh, we need to get to London as soon as possible – one of her friends has a vampire problem. And, I, uh, can't exactly get on a plane – not without taking double the prescription dose of a sedative or something."

"And so you want me to . . . to take you from where you are and bring you to London?"

The hunter swallowed uncomfortably. "If you could, Cass. That'd be, uh, great."

"I am not a taxi service, Dean," the angel reminded him, but with considerably less heat than Dean had been expecting.

"I know, and I wouldn't ask, but Faith's friend has access to an obscene amount of lore – and I was planning on going through that, seeing if there's any further advice on how to defeat the Devil – or how to locate God. You know . . ."

Castiel waited a long moment before replying. "In that case . . . I suppose . . . I can only take you there, Dean. Since I have been cut off from Heaven, I do not have the power to bring you back. Is that understood?"

"Yeah, of course. That's . . . Thanks, Cass. I really, uh, I really appreciate it."

"Where are you now, Dean?"

He rattled off Faith's address. No sooner had he finished naming the state when the air around him shimmered in that odd way so particular to Castiel, and the angel himself was standing in front of him, crunching an empty can of Budlight beneath one of his scuffed dress shoes. Tilting his head from one side to the other, the angel surveyed the living room with Dean's half-open duffel bag in one corner and the detritus of weapons and fast food wrappers.

"Where is Sam?" asked Cass, seeing no evidence of the younger hunter's presence.

"He's on a vision quest," responded Dean shortly. It was close enough to the truth.

"I don't understand," Castiel commented, looking confused. "What is he looking for?"

The hunter ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know. Anyway, uh, thanks for doing this, Cass."

As he spoke, the bedroom door creaked open, and Faith stuck her head out into the hallway. "What's going on? I thought I heard . . . " The words trailed away as she caught sight of Castiel. "I didn't realize we had company," she added in a guarded tone. "Good to see you, Castiel. At least, I think it is."

"Dean says you have some sort of crisis in London?" hazarded the angel.

"Something like that. Series of murders at a children's school called St. Cuthberts. My friend Angel – he's not an actual angel," Faith amended hurriedly. Castiel was giving her that look again, the one that made her feel like an animal in a zoo. "Well, Angel – the not-angel – thinks these murders are vampire-related, and he's asked for me and another friend of his to go in and investigate."

As a new idea popped into her head, the Slayer grinned. "Hey – wanna come along? You could substitute for the theology teacher, remind all the little hellions of their catechism."

"I am engaged in a much more imperative search at present," said Castiel stiffly.

"Oh?" Faith darted into the bathroom to toss her toiletries into her beat-up black Jansport. "What's that?" she called, her voice carrying over the noise of drawers rattling as they opened and closed.

"I am looking for God."

She snorted in response and almost bashed the top of her skull into the cabinet over the toilet. "You think you're going to find him?"

"I have hope," answered the angel in a solemn tone. "I do not know where He is, but He would never abandon the world that He has created. It may take some time, but I believe I will find Him."

"Better you than me," mumbled the Slayer in an undertone. Finishing up in the bathroom, she dropped her backpack at the far end of the couch. "So, Dean, tell me. Which is it – United or Angel Air?"

Dean winced. "Cass has, uh, agreed to take us to London."

"Great. I've just got a few more things to pack, and I'll be good to go. Have you ever watched television, Castiel?"

"No. I do not see the point."

"Perfect." Faith took the angel by the shoulders and maneuvered him around the arm of the couch. She pushed him down onto the sagging upholstery and shoved the TV remote into his hand. "This'll be a great learning experience for you. You just, uh, sit back, relax, and discover a little more about the depths of depravity that humanity has fallen to, and Dean's going to clean up all these beer bottles and get his stuff together. Right, Dean?"

The hunter folded his arms across his chest and stared at her in frank disbelief as she danced away towards her room. "Sure," he drawled sardonically.

Giving in, Dean stepped around the edge of the couch and began collecting his trash. Arms full, he carried it all to the kitchen and dumped it into the trash can. In a spare corner of his mind, he reflected that maybe coming to Faith hadn't been the best plan. Maybe he should just call Bobby to see if he had any cases for him instead.

Before he could sink too much further into a brown study, the whirlwind that was Faith swept back into the kitchen to toss the remaining trash from the living room.

"Hey," she said quietly, her eyes scanning the lines arcing across his forehead. "Thanks for getting Castiel on board. You're going to like London. And as soon as we get this thing with Angel fixed up, we'll head right back this way, I promise."

"Sam would've liked going to London," Dean mumbled, his tone resentful.

"You want me to call him, invite him along? 'Cause I will, if that's what you want. I'll even pay for his flight."

Dean looked down at her. "Little Miss Moneybags."

Faith held up her hands in a gesture of truce. "It's a serious offer. I mean it. You change your mind, want Sam to join the party, I'll call him. I will."

"No, it's fine. It's just . . . I . . ." The hunter exhaled heavily. "It's fine. I just need to get out of here. Guess England's as good of a place as any other. One thing, though?"

"Yeah?"

"What's the name of the river that runs through London?"

"The Thames," supplied Faith helpfully, a smile working its way across her features.

"Right." Dean smirked back at her. "You pull another trick like the one with the water earlier, and I'll personally dump you into the Thames. Get it?"

"Got it," grinned the Slayer.

"Good."


	78. Long Ago and Far Away, pt 2

**June 6th, 2009, Cleveland, Ohio, 6:45 p.m.**

"Good," echoed Faith, her grin fading as she stared at the line of his T-shirt where it brushed against his collarbone. The Slayer cleared her throat. "Uh, Dean, can I ask you something?"

"You always do," replied the hunter. He stepped away and turned to the pile of dishes in the sink, replacing the stopper in the disposal and getting the hot water running. "If Cass's occupied, we might as well get these done – unless you think you can get one of your babysitter's club to come in and clean up."

"Here." She nudged him aside with one hip. "I'll do them. You pack."

"Right." Drying his hands on the legs of his jeans, Dean allowed her to take his place in front of the faucet. "What was your question?"

The Slayer gestured to her own cross pendant hovering at the base of her neck. "Your, uh, amulet. Something happen to it?"

"Leant it to Cass," answered Dean shortly. "Supposedly it can help him find God."

Sliding her hands into the six inches of warm water in the bottom of the sink, Faith set to scrubbing a particularly stubborn bit of egg yolk off of a dinner plate. She deliberately kept her voice and expression neutral. "You know, I used to think that your kind of stuff was more straightforward than mine. You get called in about a ghost, find the right set of bones, salt and burn them, case closed. And then there was me, spending my nights tracking down monsters that shoot out paralyzing mucus –"

"I still can't believe that's real –"

"Believe it. You don't want to tango with a Fyarl demon. Anyway, it's kinda odd, but I think my stuff's actually a hair less crazy than yours…"

"Faith."

"Yeah?"

"Just don't. Not right now, okay?"

Faith glanced up from her dishes. Looking over her shoulder, she watched as he disappeared around the corner and listened until his footsteps on the carpet faded into inaudibility. With a sigh, the Slayer gnawed on her lip, hoping that somehow this would all work out.

* * *

**June 7th, 2009, London, England, 12:04 a.m.**

Absolute darkness. Not the calming kind, but oppressive black streaked with hints of deep purple that pressed against his eyelids and tried to claw its way, screaming, inside his eyeballs. And then there was the swirling – swirling, twisting, spinning, as his body hurtled through something, compressing and turning itself inside out simultaneously. Finally, when he just couldn't take it any more, when he was half-convinced his body was going to explode into a thousand bloody fragments, it ended.

Dean's boots slammed into concrete, and the darkness was instantly replaced by the neon glow of streetlights and pub signs and the cacophony of sirens, car horns, and raucous laughter. The hunter whirled around, looking for Castiel, but the angel was nowhere to be seen. Tightening his grip on the strap of his military surplus duffel, he turned to the slender woman on his right. Her head tilted backwards, eyes closed, she breathed in deeply through her nose, scenting the air.

"Come on," she said after a few seconds, blinking. "The flat's about a mile from here. We should get moving." Without looking back to see if he'd follow, Faith set out, devouring the ground in surprisingly long, fast strides.

The hunter had to hurry to catch up. "You didn't want Cass to know where you live." It wasn't a question.

Faith shrugged. "Better safe than sorry." She squeezed her way between a group of mildly drunk tourists and a telephone booth. Dean was forced to go around the outside edge of the group, and once again, he fell behind.

This time, when he covered the new ground between them, he claimed her free hand with his own. There was only so much of this nonsense than a man could deal with. Besides, he'd rather use his extra energy to take in the streets around them –the closed stores with their designer names and still-lit window displays, the bright electronic sign boards flashing up ahead, the lone, silent fountain off to their left. "You still don't trust him."

"Mmm." Faith seemed barely aware of him, even as her fingers tightened around his. She stalked across the pavement, navigating her way easily through the darkened streets, never once glancing up at a sign post for direction. She was home, and it showed in the way she moved.

The Slayer had been stifled in that apartment in Cleveland. He had barely noticed it at the time, and perhaps the contrast of a London night had been required to truly bring it into the light, but now that Dean saw it, he wondered how he could have missed it. There was an bounce and an eagerness in her step that had not been there before. The woman walking just in front of him, tugging him through crosswalks as horns blared and drivers cursed, she was awake. Awake and aware in a way that Dean had only seen from her in the middle of a hunt.

Back in Ohio, she existed in some sort of sleep mode, only coming fully alive when drinks, dancing, or fighting was involved. Here, she seemed to be all-Slayer, all the time. No wonder London agreed with her so much.

Before he could get too lost in introspection, the Slayer jerked to a halt outside some tall apartment building, all dark stone and reflecting glass. Faith pulled open the heavy front door, using her elbow to shove it out of her way. She nodded to the doorman in response to his "Good evening, Ms. Lehane," and waited for the gleaming elevator to come down to her.

"Nice digs," muttered Dean in an undertone as they stepped inside the spacious elevator car. While Faith pushed the button for the fifth floor, he glanced up at the mirrored ceiling above them. "How much is rent here?"

"No rent. Giles owned this place." Dropping his hand, Faith swung her backpack off of her right shoulder and began digging through the pockets in search of her keys.

"So now you own it."

"According to my solicitor, yes." Mission accomplished, she zipped the old Jansport closed. "What do you think of London?"

The elevator doors opened, and they exited onto soft, plush carpet. "Hard to tell. Haven't seen much of it so far."

Faith turned left, lowering her voice as they passed closed apartment doors. "I'll have to show you around, take you to see the sights – we can skip the Eye, since you're not a fan of heights, but you've got to see Big Ben and the Tower and Westminster Cathedral and Southwark – you're gonna love Southwark."

"What's Suth-ark?"

"This old cathedral. It's free entry."

"You had me at 'free.'"

"Here we go." Faith stopped in front of unit 5-F and inserted one of her many keys into the burnished brass lock. Carefully, she eased the door open to prevent the hinges from squeaking.

Dean followed her inside. The Slayer flicked on the lights, revealing a hallway paneled with smooth, dark wood. She let her backpack fall to the tile entryway while she hung up her leather jacket on a hook and removed her combat boots. Lifting the Jansport back up to her shoulder, she called out, "Honey, I'm home!"

Not bothering to wait for a response, Faith led the way down the long hallway, reaching out to the side from time to time to turn on every light switch she passed. She swerved left to turn into the first doorway, and they entered a large, well-appointed living room. Dean surveyed the two gleaming black leather couches and the very expensive flatscreen mounted on the wall opposite as the Slayer dumped her bag onto the nearest couch and strolled through the doorway at the other end of the room.

"You hungry?"

"I could eat," admitted the hunter. He set his duffel on the floor close to Faith's and wandered after her.

Standing on the far side of a spacious kitchen, its white tiled floors and slate gray granite counter tops practically sparkling with cleanliness, Faith went up on tiptoe to open the freezer door. "Hot Pockets okay? It looks like Andrew cleaned the fridge out of all perishables before he headed to California."

After he nodded his approval of the Hot Pockets, Dean pulled one of the bar stools out from under the tall pine kitchen table and took a seat. "You kick him out or something?" he asked with mild curiosity.

"Not exactly." Faith found a white ceramic plate in one of the cabinets and carefully placed two Hot Pockets on it before sticking their impromptu dinner in the microwave. "He had a meeting with his publisher – did I tell you that he finally sold a novel?" She rummaged through the sparse condiments in the refrigerator until she discovered a six-pack of Diet Coke at the far back, nearly hidden by a mason jar of dark crimson liquid. Handing Dean a can, she settled herself onto the barstool opposite him and popped the top on her own.

The hunter downed half his soda in one long, thirsty swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down slightly as he returned the drink to the table. He desperately needed this caffeine if he was going to function any more tonight. "Hadn't heard that. What was this one about?"

"Some giant fantasy epic thing. He wasn't huge on the details." Faith hopped down from her barstool and retrieved the Hot Pockets from the microwave. "You want pepperoni or ham and cheese?"

"Surprise me."

"O-kay. You take the one on the right, and I'll take the one on the left."

They were halfway through eating, making meaningless small talk about Andrew and his fledgling writing career more to fill the air than to actually comment upon it, when hinges creaked somewhere in the apartment, and a tall, slender woman walked into the room, a serrated knife clenched in her right fist. When she saw the occupants of the kitchen, the weapon clattered to the tile.

" _Faith_?" said the stranger incredulously.

The Slayer in question slid down from her barstool, one hand going to the small of her back to retrieve the silver dagger she tended to keep there in case of emergencies. " _Illyria_?" Her voice was equally incredulous. "Aren't you supposed to be dead, Bluebird?" The incredulity morphed into irritation. "Stop looking like Fred, Blue. Change back."

"It's me, Faith. I am Fred. I, uh, came back. When magic was restored, a lot of unexpected things were restored as well. Including me, I guess. Didn't . . . Didn't Angel tell you?" asked the woman, her Southern accent becoming more noticeable. Disappointment filled her fawn-colored eyes, and she twisted her hands together. Her entire body was bird-thin, almost anorexic in appearance, but it was especially noticeable at the wrists.

"No, he didn't," Faith replied slowly, taking a moment to choose each of her words. She kept a tight grip on the hilt of her dagger, still unsure if she believed the woman in front of her. "Where is he?"

"In the study, I think."

"Angel!" This time, the Slayer did not bother keeping her voice down. "Get the hell in here!"

Thirty seconds passed in a tense silence while Dean finished his Hot Pocket and Fred looked uncomfortable. By the time the vampire with a soul wandered in from wherever he had been lurking in the depths of the flat, Faith's glower was etched bone deep.

Unaffected by her death glare, Angel opened the refrigerator and poured himself a mug of blood. "Wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."

"When were you going to tell me about this?" the Slayer demanded, gesturing at Fred. When the vampire did not instantly respond, she turned to the others in the kitchen. "Would you give us a minute?"

"Yeah, we'd probably better skedaddle," said Fred in her quiet voice. She tapped at Dean's shoulder. "Come on."

His eyebrows raised, the hunter snatched the remnants of Faith's hot pocket and casually meandered after Fred's retreating back.  _I'm leaving because I want to,_ his casual gait seemed to say.  _Not because you asked me to._

Still munching away at the fake pepperoni-filled goodness, he joined Fred in the living room. Skinny as a rail, the brunette perched on the edge of one of the leather couches. She was wringing her hands again. As he approached, she extended one bony hand. "I'm Fred. Well, it's short for 'Winifred,' but only my parents call me that."

Taking her hand and shaking it, the man was surprised by her strength. For such a fragile-appearing person, there was no denying she gave an emphatic handshake. "Dean."

"Dean," echoed Fred nervously. "I'm so sorry – I didn't mean to spring out at y'all like that. Like Angel said, we weren't expecting Faith until tomorrow. And if I'd known he hadn't told her about me, I would have, well, I don't know, talked to him or something? Oh, well. I'm sure they'll work it out – Faith and Angel, they always kind of do."

The hunter nodded silently, already regretting leaving his Diet Coke on the kitchen table. "So, uh, Fred, tell me. What's your story?"

"It's kind of long . . ."

Dean turned the full wattage of his most charming smile on her, and he jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen. "I think we've got the time. Something tells me they're going to be working stuff out for a while."

* * *

"Dude. Hey." Faith punched Angel in the shoulder lightly. "Why didn't you tell me about Fred? That's kinda big news, don't you think?"

"I know," admitted Angel as he rinsed his mug out in the sink. "I should have told you. I made a mistake. I'm sorry. There," he glanced up with a half-smile. "That good enough?"

Faith punched his other shoulder this time. "It's a start."

The vampire pretended to wince. "You really think hitting people is the best way to conduct a conversation?"

"Ehhh. Sometimes I'm not entirely sure you're people. Start talking."

"Fred just appeared in Magic Town one day – Nadira found her wandering around and called me. That was a couple of weeks ago."

"And you're sure it's not Illyria? That it's really Fred? I thought her soul was all blasted to smithereens when the Bluebird came to nest."

"We conducted quite a few tests. As far as I can tell, this is the real Fred. Whatever Illyria might be left in her is buried deep, deep, deep down. We were unable to elicit any signs of her presence."

Reclaiming her barstool, Faith rubbed at her forehead. "Trying to think about any of that gives me a headache. Can we talk about something a little less metaphysical? What's up with this case thing? Why'd you want me here?"

"String of missing and murdered children out at a school called St. Cuthbert's. Looks vampire-driven."

"Why?"

Angel gave her his most skeptical look, the one that always made Faith feel about six inches tall. "Bodies keep turning up without any blood left in them."

"Fang marks?"

"Abundant."

"And you want Fred and me to go in undercover?"

The vampire frowned, his already prominent forehead becoming even more lined than usual. "That was the original plan, yes. I hadn't anticipated on you bringing your hunter friend along."

"He has a name, Angel. Don't be an infant. How did you want us to infiltrate? You do any scoping out of the joint yet?"

"Well . . ."

And gradually, the entire story came out. Nadira had first brought the disappearances and deaths at St. Cuthbert's to Angel's attention, and then he had gone on to discuss the case with Giles' former contact at New Scotland Yard, a police detective who specialized in seemingly unsolvable crimes. With the detective's assistance, he had set up new identities and backgrounds for both Fred and Faith, finding them positions as a replacement lunch lady and a substitute gym teacher respectively.

The only trouble was, Buffy had called that afternoon. She had another situation in San Francisco, this time involving a demon named Archaeus, and she had called in both Angel and Spike to help defeat him. Angel was flying out on a private flight operated by the Watcher's Council the very next morning, taking a special plane that had all of its windows replaced with vampire-proof glass.

Faith swallowed this with only the briefest of eye rolls, muttering an inarticulate jumble of sarcasm into the metal lip of her Coke. "How about Dean goes in as my assistant?" she proposed. "Could always use another set of hands to keep those hormonally-charged pre-teens in line."

"Fine," capitulated Angel, "but please try to act like a normal gym teacher. Stick to stuff like running and basketball – or whatever it is they teach in those classes. No martial arts."

"I wasn't born yesterday," Faith reminded him.

"Comparatively speaking," the vampire mumbled.

"I can hear you, you know."

"Of course you can."

The Slayer flipped him off on principle. "So who's bunking where?" she asked, trying to think of something to say that didn't involve her commenting on how he still ran to Buffy like a little lapdog whenever she whistled.

"Since I'm leaving before dawn, Fred's taking my room. I assumed Dean would stay in yours."

Although it was not an unreasonable assumption, Faith found her irritation finally hitting the breaking point. Her patience, already significantly strained by a week of playing hostess to a half-drunk man, had nearly buckled upon meeting Fred and then had taken another hit when Angel brought up riding on off on that damned white horse of his to go help out B.

Now, the Slayer struggled to scrape the bottom of the barrel of her self-control in search of a good reason to continue biting her tongue. Coming up empty-handed, she threw in the towel.

"Why?" she said as she felt the strings of self-discipline snapping. "Why would he stay in my room?"

Angel looked at her in surprise. "Because he's your boyfriend?"

In that instant, Faith abandoned all pretense of control.

* * *

"You were in another dimension?" Dean wondered, deeply curious in spite of himself. "What . . . what was that like?"

Before Fred could begin to answer, the soft rumble of voices in the background rose to an unholy roar. Faith was yelling, her words coming so fast as to make them unintelligible. Angel's voice joined hers, his attempts to calm and soothe soon replaced by a series of impassioned retorts every bit as furious and loud. Dean and Fred exchanged awkward glances. The hunter half-rose from his seat on the couch, but then Fred caught his sleeve, stopping him.

"Wait," she urged with a gentle tug downwards on his jacket cuff. "Just let them finish."

As Dean opened his mouth to tell her to mind her own business, Faith's alto soared above Angel's dark baritone. "For the last frakking time," she snarled, "he's not my g-ddamned boyfriend. Leave it the hell alone!"

"Would you like to see the study?" ventured Fred, her light brown eyes flicking between Dean's face and the doorway to the kitchen. "It's almost as good as a small library."

Never one to turn down a good escape route, Dean responded quickly, "Sounds great." His smile fixed, he added, "Lead the way."

* * *

In the end, Faith spent the night on the couch. She hoped Andrew had taken the time to vacuum out around the cushions after his stay. Still, despite whatever nonsense Angel might spout, it would be impossible to 'catch' Star Trek. The Slayer simply had no desire to inhale some crumbled bit of months-old Cheeto in her sleep. Choking to death on stale junk food was not the way she wanted to go.

When she awoke the next morning, Angel had long-since departed, leaving her a brief apology note on the kitchen table. It was almost enough to earn her forgiveness, and Faith soon dissipated the rest of her bad mood in a latte from her favorite coffee shop two blocks down the street. By the time she returned from her usual London morning jog, both Fred and Dean were up. The former had brought multiple piles of reference tomes into the living room and lay stretched out on the carpet, turning pages and sipping from the mug of tea near her elbow.

To Faith's mild surprise, Dean had joined in with Fred on the research. They both looked up at her when she entered the room, her ponytail and tank top dripping with sweat.

"You guys want to do some sight-seeing today?" At her audience's skepticism, the Slayer added, "Come on. The books can wait. It's a Sunday – the school's not open today. So let's hit the streets, mingle with the tourists, grab some fish and chips for dinner. We can talk strategy – maybe even check out St. Cuthburt's after sunset. Whaddya say?"

Dean was the first to agree with her, pushing himself up from the couch and stretching out his lower back. "Fine by me. Not like I was having much luck anyway. You're gonna take a shower first, though, aren't you? 'Cause I hate to break it to you, Faith, but you kinda smell . . ."

* * *

**June 7th, 2009, 11:33 p.m.**

She wasn't supposed to be out. That, she knew, deep down in the small portion of her brain still capable of rational thought. The voices had said to stay, to stay and hide and plan until the plots stretched out like a web, finer than any spider could ever weave. Staying was prudent and smart. She would stay, and she would hide, until it was time, until it was too late for the crusaders, until there was no chance of failure.

So  _He_  had said, and she had agreed. Wait and watch, and think and catch. Clever thinking, clever thoughts, until everything would be caught up exactly the way  _He_  wanted it to be. She was good, she was clever, she was patient. She would obey.

But then the stars started singing again, and their voices buzzed in her ear. Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz like a horde of clever little bees, the sound filling her from insides to outsides, and she could think of nothing else. Nothing but the song.

She slipped out, avoiding her helpers and keepers, following the dance of shadows, allowing the darkness to lead her where it would while she searched out the stars. Nothing, nothing, nothing – she could understand none of it yet, only recognize the sharp metallic lilting that consumed her, tapping on the insides of her skull, driving her too-still heart to almost quiver in her chest.

And then – at last – she found it. An empty square, a deserted fountain, all silent and lonely in the unforgiving moonlight. Not even the traffic dared to ruin this magical place with their nasty grumbling, not at this hour. She danced to the edge of the fountain and watched the water run, her eyes half-glazing over as the water trickled, trickled, trickled. It should be soaring, plunging, roaring, leaping, but all it did was trickle.

Yet – even though the trickle was not what it ought to be, even though she could hear the whispers of teenagers who thought themselves clever as they stumbled through an alleyway not so far away, the trickling water was enough, enough to sharpen her ears, open her mind, so that the song of the stars came through in perfect clarity. Once again, they spoke to her, in such bittersweet loveliness that she clutched at her head, caught in a mixture of agony and ecstasy.

As the stars sang to her, she saw. She saw, she learned, and she knew what needed to happen. What must happen. What would happen, because the stars had sung it to her. Throwing her arms out to the sides, she whirled beneath the night sky, utterly consumed by the star music whirring through her entire being.

_Not long now._


	79. Long Ago and Far Away, pt 3

* * *

**June 8th, 2009, London, England, 11:45 a.m.**

"Knees up!" bellowed Dean as he surveyed the gymnasium half-filled with teenage boys, all trying to jump rope in unison and failing miserably. "This isn't Double Dutch, people!"

"Having fun?" Hands shoved in her pockets, the Slayer left her comfortable perch partway up the bleachers and came down to join him near the sidelines of the basketball court inked onto the waxy wooden floor.

Dean shrugged. "Ehh. They're more coordinated than the last two classes . . ."

"Not going to argue with that." Tilting her head to the side, Faith observed the awkward hopping of her temporary students. "You still think this was a good idea?"

The hunter's eyes darted away from the uncoordinated adolescents, and he smirked at her. "Trust me. After this, they won't dare complain about anything else we come up with."

"Oh, good," said Faith. "'Cause I was thinking, and, you know, I never really paid attention in P.E. Tended to skip it, actually." She withdrew a piece of electronics from the back pocket of her khakis and handed it back to Dean. From a distance, the EMF meter looked innocuously like a Walkman.

"You run into anybody on your little walk-about?"

"A janitor – caretaker, I guess they're called here. He asked me what I was doing – I said I was checking all the bathrooms to see if they had tampons in the dispensers. He left me alone after that."

"Meter light up?"

"Not so much as a flicker. Which, honestly, I was expecting." The Slayer's stomach gurgled, and she crossed her arms tightly across it. "When is it gonna be lunch time? I'm starving."

Glancing down, the hunter checked his watch. "This period ends in ten minutes, and then I think we've got half an hour for lunch?"

"Good. Gives us an excuse to check in with Fred." The Slayer turned to the class, who were all still struggling with their jump ropes. "Okay, boys! Walk three laps to cool down. Soon as you finish those, you can go ahead and get changed."

They stood silently watching as the twenty-odd teenagers made their sulky way around the edges of the basketball court. In compliance with the universal laws of adolescence, a few of them ran, eager to get this over with, while the majority milled about in a confused huddle for the first fifteen yards before sorting themselves out into smaller groups as friends were found and social hierarchies reestablished.

As the students completed their first lap, heading past their new teachers, they slowed even further.

"Move along, gentlemen," Faith urged with a 'hurry-up' gesture. "You don't want to wear those gym clothes to lunch!"

Thankfully, the horde of sweating fifteen-year-olds got the message. They picked up the pace, now almost speed-walking instead of crawling.

"They were all checking you out," Dean chuckled in an undertone, gently elbowing her in the ribs.

"I know," replied the Slayer out of the side of her mouth. "Can't decide if I'm flattered or seriously disturbed."

"Both?" suggested Dean.

"Yeah, why not? Let's go with that."

To Faith and Dean's immense relief, the bell rang shortly after their students had disappeared into the depths of the locker rooms, which Dean had scanned for electromagnetic field disturbances earlier that morning, before first period started. Like any respectable secondary school bathroom, it stank of body odor and unwashed clothing and a few other unmentionable things. Unfortunately, not a single locker in the entire place had sent his trusty EMF meter a whirring.

As the teenagers stampeded out of the locker room, locked in a group dead sprint towards the cafeteria, the hunter turned to his fellow physical education instructor. "How much more of the place do we need to scan?" he asked in a quiet tone, in case one of the boys at the back of the herd had better hearing than the average self-involved fifteen-year-old.

"Just the last few individual classrooms, I think. The ones we didn't get to this morning. You and I checked all the hallways during our 'bathroom breaks.' But we'd better go check in with Fred, see if she's found anything."

"Right." Dean waited for the last of the teenagers to disappear through the doors of the gym and then began meandering that way himself, the Slayer at his side. "I just hope this place has edible food."

Faith snorted. "You and me both, Dean. You and me both."

* * *

They needn't have worried. It was chicken nugget day. And, as Fred cheerfully explained while they went through her line, chicken nugget day was the one part of school lunches that was impossible to mess up.

"You find out anything interesting yet?" pressed Faith as Fred ladled a generous portion of mashed potatoes and gravy onto her styrofoam tray.

"Just a little gossip," replied the former scientist, current lunch lady. "Nothing much."

"Any hits with that EMF meter I leant you?" Dean asked, nudging Faith aside with his hip. It was his turn for potatoes.

"Unfortunately not. Which makes sense, though, right? If this is a –" Fred lowered her voice – "a bite-y thing, you wouldn't get electromagnetic disturbances."

"Unless one of the bitten decided to rise."

"Which isn't likely to happen," Faith cut in. "They tend to come back as biters, not spooks."

"We're holding up the line," observed Dean. "Meet us in the gym after school?"

Fred nodded, her hair net slipping down further over her forehead. "I'll be there."

Hunter and Slayer paid the cafeteria lady at the register and carried their lunch to the teacher's lounge. It was mostly deserted; the majority of instructors at St. Cuthburt's tended to go out for takeaway or eat in their classrooms, but there were still a half-dozen teachers sitting around a long rectangular table, conversing together with varying degrees of enthusiasm and irritation.

"Mind if we join you?" inquired Faith in her best Giles-approved British accent.

One of the women, a frizzy-haired brunette in her early thirties, glanced up from her tuna salad sandwich and smiled at them. "You must be the new athletics instructors." She indicated two empty chairs. "Please. Sit down. I'm Holly. This is Gina, Charles, Marigold, Freddy, and Thomas."

"Thanks," Faith said easily, sliding into the empty chair next to Holly. She unscrewed the top on her water bottle and took a quick sip. After swallowing, she added, "I'm Hope. Hope Lyonne. And this is Dean."

"Nice to meet you," echoed Dean as he sat next to Faith.

"How're you finding the place so far?" asked Thomas, a heavy-set man who had to be pushing sixty, at least. His thinning white hair was parted severely in the middle, held in perfectly combed lines by some sort of product.

Faith's mouth was full, so Dean took this one. "Not bad. It's a very nice school."

Gina coughed and had to set her mug of tea back down onto the table. "What a diplomatic response," she commented dryly.

The hunter continued, "I was curious about one thing, though."

Marigold and Charles exchanged amused glances. "So many things to be curious about at St. Cuthbert's," Marigold agreed aloud.

"Yeah . . . I noticed there were a lot of names on the attendance rolls that weren't there in class. Almost two or three every period. The students got very quiet when I asked who they were. I wondered what that was about."

Dean already knew the answer to this question. The evening before, after taking one of those open-topped tourist buses around the city and checking out a few of Faith's favorite free haunts in London, the three erstwhile investigators had gathered around her kitchen table and gone through the basics of the case. In the process, they had reviewed the police case files for each vanished or murdered child, creating a timeline of events that spanned six notebook pages, front and back, and listed each disappearance with a picture of the child in question, their last known location, and any information the police had dug up.

Nearly a dozen children had gone missing in the last month. Only five bodies had been found. What had happened to the bodies of the other seven was anyone's guess. Whoever was drinking their way through the lifeblood of St. Cuthburt's might have turned them, or they might have simply disposed of the bodies in a more efficient way. Faith had been the one to support the turning theory, mainly because if whatever was taking kids knew how to clean up after themselves, the sporadic pattern of permanent disappearances versus exsanguinated teenagers didn't make too much sense.

Now, having set the cat among the pigeons, Dean watched the table full of instructors carefully, gauging each of their reactions. Something was killing their students, often snatching them on school grounds. He knew that, and Faith knew that, and now he wondered very much what the teachers at this school were telling themselves. Twelve missing children from a high school of eight hundred was by no means an insignificant number.

A few of the teachers winced. Others looked down at their plates and refused to look back up as a few moments of exquisitely awkward silence passed. Finally, Freddy, the oldest- and frailest-appearing of the group, met Dean's gaze with his cold blue eyes.

"How ghoulish of you," he said at last. "I am sure the children themselves explained. Students have gone missing, and some of them have been discovered dead. It has been a very challenging few weeks for everyone here. Your predecessor must have failed to update the attendance records before his departure."

Freddy rose from his chair, abandoning his half-finished Cobb salad. "Come along, young man. You and I are going to pay a visit to the administrative secretary and have her print out a correct set of rolls for you."

The hunter recognized a command when he heard one. "Yes, sir," he replied, instantly following the elderly man's lead and standing, not without one last forlorn parting glance for the remnants of his own lunch.

* * *

**June 8th, 2009, London, England, 3:45 p.m.**

Barely had the final bell of the day finished ringing when someone knocked tentatively on the athletic office door where Faith and Dean had sequestered themselves. For some odd reason, there was no gym class during last period, and they had spent the last hour reviewing blueprints of the school, wondering if any of the bodies of the missing children were still on campus.

"Yeah?" said Dean.

"It's me – Fred."

"Come on in."

The doorknob turned, and Fred walked in. Already, she had traded her lunch lady uniform and hair net for a pair of tailored black jeans and a russet-colored cardigan that both somehow emphasized just how waifishly thin she was. The scientist perched on the edge of Faith's desk. "Y'all find anything?"

"EMF meter's dead silent. Not so much as a cold spot or any indicator of ghost-y activity anywhere in this joint," the Slayer groused. She exhaled in frustration. "I wish I'd been here when that inspector took Angel to the morgue. I hate just going off of some paper autopsy report. No chance they're still in the coolers?" she asked plaintively, without much hope.

Fred frowned. "I doubt it. That was a week ago." She paused, then continued, "For what it's worth, I was there with Angel when he went to the morgue."

"Do you remember much of what you saw?"

"Yeah. We saw three of the, uh, bodies, I believe. We only had about ten minutes of unsupervised time to conduct a quick external examination. Each of the boys had two puncture wounds, a few centimeters apart, located in the posterior triangle of the neck between the posterior head of the sternocleidomastoid and the trapezius muscle. Their bodies were extremely pale, with the exception of faint redness around the wounds in the neck. According to the pathologist, they had been completely drained of blood."

"Definitely sounds like a vampire thing," Faith concluded grumpily.

Sucking her teeth, she glanced around the office. "We're not doing any good here. Come on – let's head home, grab a little shut-eye, pack up some clothes, stakes, and deodorant. We can come back here tonight. Whatever vamps we're after, they won't be partying while the sun's up."

Dean pushed himself up out of his chair, already thinking with longing of the ridiculous comfort of the giant bed that had once belonged to Giles and now belonged to Faith. "Sounds good."

"I could use a bit of a nap," Fred admitted. "Those lunch ladies – they don't really sit down much."

"Go team," mumbled the Slayer. "I'm gonna swing by Magic Town on our way, check in with Nadira real quick. If there's teenage mutant prep school vampires running around, she might have heard whispers about it. And anyway, if she hasn't, I can put her on alert."

"What, uh . . ."

"Yeah, Dean?"

"You've mentioned Magic Town a time or two. Not to sound all uninformed or anything, but what exactly is it?"

"It's a neighborhood in Hackney, in north-eastern London. They got hit with a magical plague a few months back, and now no one who lives there is normal. Turned a criminal into a pixie, and it caught up Nadira – that Slayer who used to always want to kill Angel, the one I used to complain to you about. Well, now she's got all these mystical powers, and she understands the place like no one else does. Not even Angel."

"What's Angel got to do with it?" asked Dean reflexively, convinced that he wasn't going to like the answer.

"He's, uh, kind of the self-appointed sheriff of Magic Town. Keeping the peace, dealing with the evil pixie criminal masterminds, that kind of thing."

"Of course he is." Dean shook his head wearily. "Of course he is."

* * *

**June 12th, 2009, London, England, 4:30 p.m.**

Four days had passed, four days of catching a few hours of sleep in the afternoons and the early morning between false dawn and first period, four days of watching the school like a hawk during the day and during the night, four nights of patrolling every inch of St. Cuthburt's and poking into every corner and peering behind every locked door in search of a corpse, a pile of ash, or even a significant-looking footprint. Four days, and they had had absolutely zero luck.

Faith wasn't sure how much longer she was supposed to keep this up. Undercover wasn't the way she liked to investigate. She much preferred waltzing into some demon bar and smashing heads until someone told her what she wanted to know. Vampire, demon, or human, no one could keep a secret. Not really. Somewhere in the dark, smelly, mystical underbelly of this giant press of civilization, someone knew who was behind this mess. And she couldn't fight the feeling that beating the truth out of some fang who couldn't keep his mouth shut would be far more intellectually engaging than this play-acting nonsense.

But Angel had asked her to do things his way, and so his way she would do them, even if it made her cranky and restless. The only positive part of the whole thing, she reflected, as Dean and Fred left the office on their way to go find some takeout for an afternoon snack, was that this gig kept Dean too busy keeping up the role of some good ol' boy American gym teacher for him to find a bottle and stew about the Apocalypse, the Devil, and his problematic baby brother.

Taking advantage of the alone time, the Slayer unlocked her phone and made a call. She hadn't heard from the Fangéd Boy Wonder since he'd left Sunday, and it was way past time to check in.

"Morning, Angel," she crooned when the vampire finally picked up. "How's San Francisco? You wearing a flower in your hair?"

"Buffy's dating Spike again," announced the vampire with a soul glumly. Faith winced. It would have been better if he had been furious. This, the depressed resignation in his voice, it almost made her ache for him - and here she had thought she was all finished giving a damn about Buffy's love life.

"I'm sorry," she said as kindly as she could manage. "But, uh, that wasn't actually what I wanted to know. What's, uh, what's the demon situation?"

Angel hesitated, and the hair on the back of Faith's neck stood on end. Whenever Angel hesitation was involved, she knew she wasn't going to like what came next.

"What's gone wrong?"

"There's something I haven't told you."

The Slayer almost swore. From here on out, the next time she saw that blood-sucking squatter of hers, she was going to require he sign a full-disclosure agreement – maybe even get her solicitor to draft up something binding and legal, force Angel to sign in his own blood. She was getting horrendously tired of all these unexpected surprises.

"Spill," she growled.

"The last while, before, uh, before all of this started, I'd been having these dreams."

"The wake up with a morning-happy kind? Or the wake up in a sea of blood kind?"

"The, uh, bloody kind. Definitely the bloody kind. I was hunting, only it wasn't me, it was Angelus."

"I thought he stayed locked up in his box. Even at night."

"So did I, at first. But then the dreams kept happening, and I realized these weren't actually Angelus' memories. Or mine. It was places I'd never been before, people I'd never –"

"Never murdered before," Faith finished for him.

She could hear Angel's eye-roll in the brief silence that followed. "Right. Anyway, I just found out that Spike's been having similar dreams. And this demon that Buffy's up against, the one called Archaeus . . . Well, Giles and Willow did some more research – "

"Of course they did," interjected the Slayer. "Sounds just like high school. What'd they find out?"

"Archaeus was the name of the demon who turned the Master."

It took a little bit for the significance of this to sink in. That title sound awfully familiar. Faith racked her brain. Vampires, Master, Angel, Sunnydale . . . After an embarrassingly long moment, she put the pieces together.

"The Master?" she echoed slowly. "The one who made Darla, who went on to sire you? The vamp that killed Buffy her first year in SunnyD?"

"That's the one."

"What does he want, this Archaic dude?"

"Archaeus," Angel corrected automatically. "And we're not sure yet. Open a portal, summon a demon army, swallow the world? I wouldn't be surprised if it were something along those lines."

"Frak," breathed Faith. "Be careful, okay? You and Spike and the little G-man. Be careful."

The vampire snorted. "I see where your priorities are. No words of concern for Buffy or Willow or Xander or Dawn?"

"Whatever."

Sobering, he promised, "I will. We will. How're things over there?"

"Nothing so far. There's some end-of-term banquet at the school tonight, so maybe that'll be enough action to tempt whoever's taking these kids out of their hideout."

"How's Dean?" asked Angel, strangely prescient.

Faith's insides twisted uncomfortably. "He's fine."

"He smelled like alcohol when you two arrived. Not dissimilar to the kind of cheap rotgut Spike used to drink like it was O positive."

"Like I said, he's fine."

"And you?"

"I gotta go," the Slayer lied. "The others are about to get back. Just, remember what I said, okay? Take care of yourself. You'd better come home in one piece. I still have more than half a mind to kick your ass, and I don't want to deal with the inconvenience of putting it back together first."

* * *

**June 12th, 2009, London, England, 8:30 p.m.**

_It was always a little extra weird, working a case at a school_ , Dean reflected as he finished his second complete circuit of St. Cuthburt's perimeter. He was strolling around the outside of the school, keeping to the darker shadows, his eyes and ears peeled for any signs of potentially suspicious behavior. Fred was inside the gymnasium, working the fancy dinner event itself, and Faith was patrolling the inside of the building. The hunter couldn't quite decided which of them he thought had drawn the shorter end of the stick.

There was something about schools, something that made him feel odd and uncomfortable. Jobs involving school-aged kids tending to be more than your usual level of creepy, and not only because the monsters that went after kids were a particular brand of awful. Part of it was that Dean felt like a major creep, peering this closely into teenagers' lives and habits.

And if he were being brutally honest with himself, schools just freaked him out a little. Not a lot, just a little. There was something about being around a high school that forced you back into nostalgia. Watching a fifteen-year-old being a little snot made him think about himself as a fifteen-year-old, about all the things that fifteen-year-old Dean had dreamt of or wanted or had, things that time had long since stolen, corrupted, and destroyed. Thoughts that thirty-year-old Dean generally did his best to avoid like the plague.

With a sigh, the hunter pushed open one of the side doors at the far wing of the school. He was supposed to canvass this hallway and meet Faith in front of the teacher's lounge to switch patrol beats. Not that Dean minded in the slightest. Even in June, the London air was damp and chilly, somehow forcing its way in through his black field jacket. He could use a half hour inside the heated building.

Dean moved down the hall, pausing in front of each classroom door to glance through the thin pane of glass a foot or so above the doorknob. All was empty, all was quiet. Nothing much to see here.

The Slayer was already waiting outside the teacher's lounge by the time he got there, her shoulders hunched and her head swiveling from side to side. They'd barely been doing this for a week, but Dean could tell that she was approaching the limits of her stir-craziness. If nothing turned up this evening, he wondered if he could convince Fred to take school watch during the early hours of the morning while he dragged Faith out to some discotheque or something.

She was building up a head of energy and frustration, and she needed to work it off. If it wasn't dancing, it would be hitting something, and Dean had no desire to be the one around when she resorted to hitting things. Besides, he wouldn't be opposed to a break himself.

"You find anything?" he asked in a whisper.

"Not so much as a peep," Faith whispered back sourly. "G-ddamn vampires. You'd think they'd have the decency to turn up."

"That's where you made your first mistake – associating decency with vampires."

"Haha, very funny."

"I try –"

Faith covered his mouth with one hand, effectively shushing him. With her free hand, she pointed first to her ear and then to the ceiling above them. When Dean nodded in confirmation, she removed her hand. They listened in absolute silence as something squeaked and rustled. It sounded like hurried footsteps moving across the second floor.

Together, Slayer and hunter turned to the closest stairwell. They ascended quietly, placing their feet on each concrete step with care, already reaching for the stakes tucked into the waistbands of their regulation P.E. instructor khakis. Faith reached the door first, and she depressed the handle, pushing it open so that their entry onto the second floor was not marked by so much as a single creak.

Like the hallway below them, this one was deserted. But the rustling was louder now, accompanied by the low rumble of voices. Excellent. They continued their creeping, listening at the doorway of each classroom and bathroom for the source of the voices. Halfway down, Dean froze outside the entrance to the girls' restroom. He gestured with one hand for Faith to approach and cautiously twisted the edge of the doorknob. It was locked fast.

"Hold her down!" came an angry voice from the depths of the bathroom. "It isn't that difficult, you idiots."

The Slayer stood directly behind him, one hand on his shoulder, throwing a plan together in a few hurried seconds. "If that's people," she breathed, "none of them leave that room. If it's vampires, I want to save two. Got that? Unconscious, wounded, whatever. I want two."

Not daring to risk sound, the hunter bobbed his chin up and down once to show that he understood.

"Here goes nothing," said Faith in an undertone. "Step aside, Dean."

She crossed to the other side of the hallway and launched into a dead sprint. Slayer momentum crashed into the metal door with unrelenting force, smashing it open. Faith checked her speed before she collided with the opposite wall and took in the scene in the restroom, Dean hot on her heels.

Three boys in their mid to late teens, all with a serious fang problem, were gripping onto the shoulders and ankles of a small dark-haired girl that Dean recognized vaguely from one of their classes. Her name was Mary, his subconscious supplied helpfully. She was fourteen.

A fourth boy, taller than the others, stood between the two dilapidated bathroom sinks, his hands tensed on the porcelain rims, watching the struggle with narrowed yellow eyes beneath the familiar heavy brow ridges of a vampire. He barely had the time to glance up in surprise as the Slayer careened into the room before her fist was slamming into the underside of his chin, knocking his skull back against the concrete wall and sending him off to vampire dreamland.

"That's one!" she yelled for the hunter's benefit, and then she was whirling into the other three, staking the first one neatly, her dangerously sharp length of wood slipping in along the medial edge of his left scapula. Faith jerked her stake back out before he had finished disintegrating.

Eyes practically glowing with unholy excitement, she grabbed the next-tallest vampire boy by the shoulders and threw him up against the wall. The Slayer had a stake in his heart before his feet could hit the ground. Her chest rising and falling with each deep breath, she turned to the final vampire who was still conscious.

"Hi, kid," she almost purred.

Not being a complete idiot, the teenage vampire glanced back and forth between the terrifying vision of the Slayer and the hunter in the doorway, whose relaxed stance and broad shoulders were nearly as frightening. He released his hold on Mary's shoulders, and the girl scrambled to her feet. Whimpering, she rushed to the door.

"Hang on a second," Dean stopped her, his voice gentle. "It's okay. We've got you. You're safe now. We just need to figure out what's going on here."

Faith dug her cell phone out of her pocket. She dialed in a number and held the mobile up to her ear. "Okay, you idiot," she addressed the shrimpy vampire. "Drag your buddy over there into that stall – no, not the one by the window. The other one. There you go. Now I want you to sit there and ponder how you're going to spend the last few minutes of your miserable un-life. You've got two options: pain, or excruciating pain."

Her tone changed as the person on the other end of the line answered. "Hey, Fred? It's Faith. Yeah, we got something. Second floor, science wing, women's restroom. Get here soon as you can."

Hanging up the call, she returned her phone to her pocket. She shifted her attention to the young girl cowering in front of Dean. Faith's shoulders rounded out and dropped down, and a great deal of the tension slacked out of her muscles.

"Mary, right?" she said in a conciliatory tone.

The fourteen-year-old nodded.

"I'm Faith. This's Dean."

"I remember you from class. You're the new –"

"Not really," Dean admitted. "Mostly we take care of things like this. You okay? They do anything to you?"

Mary held up her wrists, displaying a series of angry red slashes and claw marks that stretched along the superficial veins, a third of the way between the heel of her hand and her elbow. They bled sluggishly. "It . . . They . . . They were trying to make me drink something," she said a little weakly.

"Let's get those cleaned up." Faith turned to the sink closest to her and spun the hot water tap. "They get any blood in your mouth?"

"No." Mary shook her head firmly, even as her voice wavered. "Almost broke my teeth, but no, they didn't."

"Here." Dean stepped around Faith. "Let me help you with that." He ripped a paper towel out of the dispenser and soaked it in the hot running water. Then he gingerly dabbed at the scrapes on the teenager's wrists. "We need to get some soap on that. Just to warn you, it's probably gonna sting."

"Can you tell us what happened, Mary?" requested Faith, still speaking in a careful voice. "Starting from the beginning?"

"Dinner was almost over, when I remembered that I needed to get something from my locker, so I stepped out. Hurried up here – my locker's on this floor. I was rushing, because I didn't want to miss anything. They grabbed me before I could get more than a few feet along this hallway, and they dragged me in here. They kept yelling stuff – something about me drinking and their Mummy being pleased. It's . . . I know –  _knew_  – all those boys."

She counted them on her fingers, her eyes wide with horror. "Charlie Dawson, Luke Cowles, Jeffrey Ryland, and Will Fletcher. They're not even related. Who . . . Why would they be talking about the same mother?"

"I don't know," said Faith honestly, wondering which two of those names belonged to the vampires she had treed in the handicapped stall. "What happened next?"

"They attacked me, tried to get me to open my mouth. Kept saying I had to drink. Will cut his wrist open, and he was about to . . ." Mary shuddered. "And then you came," she finished, glancing up at Dean with mild hero worship as he finished wrapping wet paper towels around her wrists.

"All done." The hunter released her forearms and joined Faith on the far side of the sink. "Soon as our friend gets up here, she'll take you back down to your parents. When you get home, you want to put actual bandages on those. Gauze – and maybe some hydrogen peroxide. They should scab over in a few days."

Mary looked from Dean to Faith and back again. "How do you . . . What were those . . . Why . . .?"

"Those were vampires. I don't know why they were after you, but for the time being, try to stick to your parents and the sunlight, okay? We'll handle the rest of it," said Faith.

The young girl swallowed uncomfortably. "What about Will and Luke? What's . . . What's going to happen to them?"

Before the Slayer could think of a good lie, the door to the stairs creaked open, and a set of rushed footsteps came their way.

"Faith? Dean?" called a familiar voice from out in the hall.

"In here, Fred!"

The slender brunette edged her way around the crumpled bathroom door. Her eyebrows raised, she took in the bandaged student and the piles of dust scattered across the floor.

"You mind escorting Mary here back to her folks?" It wasn't really a request. "Dean and I've got a little cleaning up to do."

Fred wrapped an arm around the fourteen-year-old's shoulders and began herding her out of the restroom. "Come on, Mary. Why don't we get you downstairs?"

"Can we . . . Can we stop by my locker?" they heard the girl ask as Fred started leading her down the hallway. "I still need to get my copy of Breaking Dawn."

"Did she just –" Faith hissed in an undertone.

Dean held up a hand. "Let it go, Faith. Just let it go."

Grumbling under her breath, the Slayer rolled her shoulders backwards and forwards. "Okay, boys," she announced to the too-quiet cubicle. "You've had enough time to decide. Which one is it gonna be? Regular pain or the kind that comes with an extra side order of holy water?"

"Do you always have to snark at them?" Dean asked rhetorically, kicking open the handicapped stall door and dragging out the undead remains of Will Fletcher and Luke Cowles, who were no longer alive but were still very much kicking.

"Yes," replied Faith briskly, not bothering to take her eyes off her targets. "'Cuz here's the thing, Dean-o. I'm gonna kill 'em. You know I'm gonna kill 'em. Hell, even fang gang junior division here knows I'm gonna kill 'em. The rest is just so much tension-relieving window-dressing."

The teenage vampires whimpered as the hunter tossed them by their collars onto the floor in front of Faith.

"All right," drawled Dean. "This is what's gonna happen. You're going to tell us your names, and you're going to answer all of our questions, or my friend here might lose her temper. Trust me – you really don't want that to happen. She does some  _very_  creative things with holy water."

The vampires whimpered again.

"So . . ." Faith let the word trail away into silence. "Who's who?"

"I'm Luke," mumbled the shorter of the two vampires. "He's Will."

"Good to know. Who turned you?"

Will looked up from the tiled ground for the first time, still completely vamped out, his yellow eyes burning with hatred. "Why should we tell you anything?" he demanded resentfully.

Rolling her eyes, Faith lashed out, driving her stake through the obnoxious undead adolescent's heart. The stake dropped onto the tile with a clatter as Will crumpled into a thousand thousand flecks of ash, the noise of the wood clinking against the ceramic eerily loud.

"Looks like Will's out for the count," snarled the Slayer, turning her too-intense gaze onto the terrified Luke. If vampires could wet themselves, Dean was pretty sure that the kid would have lost control of his bladder three or four times over by now.

"Who turned you?" Faith repeated, reaching for her stake and twirling it easily between two of her fingers.

"Will turned me," whimpered Luke.

"And who turned Will?"

"Mummy. Our mummy."

The door out in the hall creaked open again, and soon Fred rejoined them. She stopped beside Dean and eyed the new pile of dust curiously.

Ignoring her for the moment, Faith leaned even closer to Luke. "And who's your mummy?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"The dark lady," babbled Luke, unable to take his eyes off the slowly rotating piece of dark wood in the Slayer's hand. "The dark lady. She asked to call her mummy."

"What's her real name, Luke?" pressed the Slayer with deceptive patience. "What do other people call her?"

"I don't know! I promise, I don't know. Please, believe me," he begged. "She's just the dark lady. The beautiful dark lady, the one who can hear the song of the stars."

A terrible idea started germinating in the depths of Faith's mind. "Where can I find this dark lady?"

"I don't know. We always met her somewhere different – every time, as long as I can remember. But it was always in some area of Hackney. Basements, empty warehouses, that sort of thing. I don't know any more than that – I swear! Please," Luke pled one last time, hyperventilating despite the fact that he would never need oxygen again. "Please don't hurt me."

"I won't," Faith promised. "It'll be just like falling asleep." Her stake plunged through the boy's St. Cuthburt's sweater, passing through the fourth and fifth ribs to pierce his heart. "Only permanent," she added, yanking her stake back out of the teenage vampire's chest as he dissolved into dust.

She turned to look at Fred, whose expression had fallen. "Well?"

"I think you're right," agreed the scientist. "I hate it, but I think you're right."

"What?" wondered Dean. Clearly, they were operating on a different wavelength at the moment.

"Drusilla," the women sighed in unison. "It's Drusilla."

"Who?"

Faith sighed again, staring at the pile of dust in front of her. She straightened out of her crouch and tucked her stake back into the waistband of her khakis. "You wanna take this one, Fred?"

"Sure."

"Where are you going?" Dean demanded as Faith slipped past him on her way out into the hall.

The Slayer brandished her cellphone. Like the rest of her, it was covered in a fine film of ash. "I've gotta make a call. Something tells me Angel's going to want to know about this.

 


	80. Long Ago and Far Away, pt 4

* * *

**June 12th, 2009, London, England, 10:14 p.m.**

"So . . ." Dean ran a hand across his five o'clock shadow, now well advanced into being ten o'clock stubble. "Just to make sure I've got all this straight . . . Drusilla was some psychic Catholic Victorian chick who evil-Angel turned in the 1800s, and now she's a crazy vampire who used to be in love with Spike."

"Yes!" Fred exhaled deeply, relieved that he finally got it. "Well . . . That's the main idea, anyway. The details are a bit more complicated than that."

"No surprise there," grumbled the hunter. "So what makes her such a big Bad, then?"

"That's one of the complicated parts," Fred admitted, glancing around the women's bathroom. It had been completely trashed in the fight earlier. Her light brown eyes scanned the ceiling quickly, her relief compounded when she didn't spot a single camera. Pseudo-posh St. Cuthbert's might be, but thankfully they weren't quite posh enough to be able to afford CCTV in all the school hallways and restrooms.

Dissatisfied with that non-answer, Dean pressed her, "What do you mean?"

"When she was human, Drusilla had the Sight. As a vampire, she retained those gifts, but they became twisted."

"Meaning?"

Faith stepped back into the bathroom, glowering as she stuffed her cell phone into her jeans pocket. "Meaning that Dru sees stuff. Some of it's real, some of it's not, and it's hard to tell if even she knows which is which. She's mad as a Hatter and meaner than Cruella DeVil, and the worst part is, she can make you see things, sometimes."

The scientist pushed away from the wall between the bathroom sinks. She was twisting her fingers in the hem of her cardigan. Dean was beginning to come to the conclusion that it had to be some kind of nervous tic or something. He wondered if she knew about it.

"What did Angel say?" she asked eagerly.

Faith's glower deepened. "Called him twice. He didn't answer the bloody phone. Neither did Spike. They're probably busy with their demon problem. I left them both voicemails."

"Did you try Buffy?"

"No. I didn't. Besides, this isn't really her business. I did get ahold of Nadira, though," Faith added, and some of her irritation disappeared. "Gave her the 411. She says she hasn't heard anything, but she'll have her squad give all the abandoned buildings in Magic Town a once-over tonight. She's sending a couple over here, too, to keep watch."

"Which means that we can actually go back to your apartment for once?" hazarded Dean.

Fred's face brightened. "A real bed," she mumbled to herself. "With a real shower."

The Slayer eyed her troops. She had a strong gut feeling that Nadira's group wasn't going to turn up anything tonight. This was Dru, after all. The dark-haired fang wouldn't be found on a regular patrol sweep. Drusilla's plans tended to be complicated, cruel, and definitely not the kind of thing you just tended to stumble across. Still, Faith yearned to track her down tonight, to confront her before the vampire could hurt anyone else.

She had more than half a mind to tell her friends just that, but then she took a closer look at them. This time, she picked up smaller details – the darkened creases and lines around Dean's eyes, the tightness at the corners of Fred's mouth. It had been a hell of a long week, and none of them were really cut out to work at a high school. A good twelve hours of rack time would do all three of them a world of good. And even if Nadira's squad of Slayers weren't quite as motivated to take Dru down as Faith was, they still had pretty decent heads on their shoulders.

"Okay," the Slayer said slowly, looking back and forth between Dean and Fred. "Let's go home."

* * *

They had expected her to be angry when she heard the news. Foolish children. Anger . . . She wasn't even sure she knew what that word meant anymore. Wasn't sure she had ever known it. Irritated, yes. Puzzled, yes. But not angry.

Regardless, it would not do for the children to think they could simply disappoint her that way. So she had them beheaded. It had been a long time since she had heard that sound. The swish of steel passing through the air, the slightly thicker swoosh as it connected with undead flesh, and finally the swish again as the sword moved freely through the air again, now connecting only with ash. Like the crackling of flames, it was a sound that she knew she ought to fear. And yet, it only made her feel alive.

She excused herself from the piles of ashes and danced her way through the underground darkness until she found a proper place to commune with  _Him_. There were explanations to be made, perhaps even an apology. She wasn't sure. Anger was unfamiliar to her tonight, but  _He_  might be feeling it, righteous wrath that would scorch her darker and deeper than any mortal flame could.

To her mild surprise,  _He_  hardly cared. There was a new story, a new plan. And  _He_  had a part for her. She nodded quietly to herself as the new plan was shared. Night after night, the stars had been telling her as much. What must be would be, and it was not far away now. Not far away at all.

He finished speaking with her, and she left, back the way she had come, her feet hardly touching the ground. Her head was so alight with purpose, fire, joy. She might even forget Miss Edith's transgressions, might turn her. to face the other dollies again. It had been a marvelous day. She could afford to be forgiving.

After all, if  _He_  could be trusted – and she desperately hoped that  _He_  could – soon everything would be bright again. Everything would be different, and for one simple, miraculous reason.

Daddy was coming home.

* * *

**June 13th, 2009, London, England, 2:30 a.m.**

"What are you looking for?"

His hand inches from the door to the kitchen, Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. He glared down at the black leather couch and its occupant. "Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?" he growled quietly, mildly pissed. There was no need for her to have scared him like that.

"Aren't you?" countered the Slayer, pushing herself up on her elbows. Dean couldn't make out much of her face, but the faint light from the muted television reflected faintly in her eyes. Something about her expression seemed off to him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Woke up at two. Couldn't fall back asleep. Thought food or something might help."

Faith snorted softly. She kept the noise down so as not to wake Fred; apparently the scientist was the only one out of the three of them who could maintain a normal sleep schedule. "Good luck with that. There's not much in the fridge. Haven't had any time to work on the shopping."

"Figures." The hunter gave up on his midnight snack and walked closer to the sofa. "That couch can't be comfortable."

The Slayer shrugged in response. Her afghan slipped down from its place around her shoulders, falling onto her chest. "I've slept on worse."

"So've I," said Dean. "But your bed in there definitely doesn't fall into the 'worse' category."

"You offering to switch?" Faith dropped back down onto the couch and retrieved her blanket.

"I was thinking more along the lines of sharing," admitted the hunter. "I'm a little too vertically-gifted for this couch thing."

Faith rolled over onto her other side, turning her face into the back of the sofa. "Thanks for the offer," she mumbled, "but I'm good."

Something in her tone struck him as not quite right, and Dean decided that he wasn't going to let her get away with it, whatever it was she was trying to hide from him. The hunter lowered himself onto the carpet, bracing his back against the arm of the couch closest to the Slayer's head. His legs sprawled out in front of him, he said even more quietly, "Something you want to tell me?"

"About my insomnia?"

He wasn't so easily diverted. "Sure. Or about why you're camped out on this couch. Or about Angel, Drusilla, Buffy, Spike, I don't know. Whatever you want to tell me."

The Slayer was not amused. "You askin' for a bedtime story? Or are you just trying to avoid the ones you're telling yourself?"

"What?"

"Dean." She flipped back over onto her stomach, and the top of her skull bumped the base of his. "You ever realize that sometimes when you're running from your demons, you like to ask about mine?" Silence followed this. Finally, she added, "It wasn't your stomach that woke you up, was it?"

"I'm not talking about it, Faith," replied the hunter, his voice snappish.

"That's fine," said Faith. "'Cause neither am I. So I guess we're at a bit of an impasse there, huh?"

He did not have an answer for this, just a heavy sigh.

"Go back to bed, Dean," encouraged the Slayer with more patience than he had expected. "Or is that not going to work?"

"I don't think it will," he grumbled. "Not tonight."

"There's sleeping pills in the bathroom cabinet, if you want those."

"You gonna take some?"

"Nah." Already, the Slayer was drifting off again. "Don't worry, Dean," she half-slurred into the couch cushion beneath her cheek. "It'll work out. We'll take care of it – all of it."

"It's the frigging Apocalypse, Faith, not a trip to the grocery store."

Faith reached her arm up blindly over her head, tapping the arm of the couch until her hand encountered Dean's forehead. She patted him on the head once, and then her hand squeezed the tight muscles of his shoulder. "I know," she mumbled, retracting her arm and tucking it underneath her. "But we're still gonna kick its ass."

Before Dean could work out an appropriately frustrated response to that, her breathing altered, becoming slower and deeper. The hunter fought the urge to roll his eyes. Typical Faith. Getting the last word in a discussion by falling asleep during it.

His stomach still thoroughly worked into the nasty combination of knots that had woken him less than an hour earlier, Dean sat there for a few minutes, listening to the slightly whistling exhalations of air through the Slayer's nose, until finally he gave into the inevitable and rose to his feet. Time to raid the medicine cabinet.

* * *

**June 15th, 2009, San Francisco, California, 11:45 p.m.**

"Whoah, Faith. I can't quite keep up with the stream of consciousness. What happened?" Cell phone pressed to his ear, his free hand clamped down over his other ear, Angel excused himself to the hallway so that he could hear her better. The vampire leaned up against the flowery wallpaper and gave Dawn a brisk nod as she squeezed past him on her way to the kitchen. "What happened?" he repeated.

An ocean and a continent away, the Slayer inhaled deeply. Angel could hear her gritting her teeth as she forced herself to slow down. "I've been trying to get ahold of you for three days."

"I know. I'm sorry. This is the first chance I've had to check my phone."

"Archaeus?"

"Tried to open a portal to the hell dimension someone banished him to half a millennium ago. Apparently he's been causing all this trouble through astral projection."

"You stop him?" asked Faith in concern.

Angel chose his words with care. "For now. Spike and I, we think it was a little too easy."

"But not everyone agrees with you?" the Slayer hazarded.

"That would be correct. How'd the thing go at the school – you get that worked out yet?"

Faith didn't bother pulling her punches. "Angel, it's Dru."

"You're sure?"

She scoffed. "Yeah, I'm sure. She's been leaving me presents the last couple of nights."

"What?"

"Easy there, big guy. Nothing Angelus-level. Just corpses dressed up like those creepy old-fashioned dolls with their throats ripped open and their eyes poked out."

"That's new," said the vampire slowly, trying to fit this in with Drusilla's past patterns of behavior.

"I think she's trying to get my attention. It's working."

At that moment, Spike poked his head out of the living room. "Oy, Angel. Willow's got a question for you."

Angel nodded. "Be right there." He waited for the blond vampire to disappear again before resuming his conversation. "I'll catch the first flight I can in the morning," he promised.

"Good." The Slayer stopped, some other thought frozen on her tongue.

"Something else you needed to tell me?" prompted the vampire.

After a few seconds' thought, Faith replied. "No," she said unconvincingly. "I'm good. Just . . . I got a feeling that this one's going to end up complicated."

"Knock on wood that you're wrong."

Something in the background of the call tapped faintly, like knuckles on a bookshelf. "Yeah. Might not be a bad idea."

* * *

**June 16th, 2009, London, England, 9:30 p.m.**

To be honest, Dean thought, watching the last rays of sunlight fade from the horizon through the large picture window in Faith's study, London wasn't quite that bad. Sure, it was a giant teeming metropolis full of strange monsters and even stranger people, but parts of it were kind of nice. The beer, for one.

He looked back down at the heavy book on the desk in front of him, a mildly mildewed collection of apocryphal prophecies made by a 14th century Benedictine monk. This collection had been reprinted sometime in the early 1900s by the Watcher's Council, but the ink was faint. Inexplicably, the book stank of dying fish. Dean gingerly turned the next page, reflecting that Sam would have loved to get his giant mitts on all the rare research volumes littering this place.

It had been a long week. Unwilling to give up their undercover roles just yet, Faith and Dean had been taking turns teaching at St. Cuthbert's – just in case something else unfortunate happened at the school. Fred, however, had been more than happy to quit the cafeteria. Instead, she had spent the last few days working her way through a terrifyingly tall stack of rare and ancient tomes in search of anything relevant to the current Apocalypse. Thus far, she had been unsuccessful. Still, Dean appreciated the effort.

Four days had passed since their initial discovery that Drusilla was the mastermind behind all of this. Since that time, they had made absolutely zero progress on the 'track Dru down and stake her' front, despite nightly canvassing of Magic Town with the aid of Nadira's squadron of Slayers. Oh, they'd encountered plenty of other vampires, to be sure, and Dean had even helped Faith take down an antlered slime demon, but Drusilla herself remained as elusive as ever.

The hunter turned another page, forcing himself to concentrate on the water-stained print in front of him. This particular prophecy had promised to mention the Apocalypse. Unfortunately, so far all he had read was the author complaining about the other monks in his order and their terrible hygiene habits. Dean rolled his eyes. He'd have thought that Watcher's Council of Faith's would have caught this and edited it out. Then again, angry medieval rants about chamber pot cleanliness might be their idea of a good time. You never could tell with the nerdy library types.

"Any luck?" Fred stuck her head in through the study door.

"Not so far," Dean said more cheerfully than he felt. "You hear from Faith?"

"She's on her way back from Heathrow with Angel."

"Never thought I'd say this, but good. I think we could use his help."

A collection of lines formed on the woman's forehead. "You're not a fan of Angel?" she asked in that incredibly innocent, non-judgmental way of hers.

"Vampire," said Dean, sticking a folded piece of printer paper in the monk ramblings to mark his place and closing the book. He glanced briefly at his phone, but there were no new messages. Apart from Becka checking in to report that his Impala was nice and safe in her parent's covered garage, he hadn't heard from anyone in over a week. Bobby knew he was out of the country working a job with Faith and wouldn't contact him unless there was a giant emergency, but he had kinda hoped there might be something – anything – from his little brother.

"And the soul thing doesn't quite make up for it, does it? I understand." Fred walked further into the study, her fingers sliding across the spines of the occupants of the dark wood bookshelves, the gesture an unconscious caress, like one between old friends.

"You like him, though."

Fred smiled. "Handsome man. Saved me from the monsters," she recited quietly, as if from memory.

"He seems to have a habit of doing that," Dean muttered under his breath.

The scientist shook her head, pulling herself back to the present. "Come on." She linked her arm through Dean's and tugged him away from the desk. "I almost forgot. Faith wants to meet up in Magic Town. We'd better get moving if we don't want her and Angel to have to wait around for us."

In spite of himself, Dean was almost looking forward to this. Maybe, with Angel back in town, they'd finally be able to drag Drusilla out from whatever rathole the vampire had hidden herself away in. Perhaps now the hunt could finally get started for real. God, he hoped so. As much as he kind of liked London, he missed his baby. And he was starting to get the sinking feeling that someone really ought to check up on Sam.

* * *

"Took you guys long enough."

Faith and Angel were waiting on the corner opposite the subway station when Fred and Dean emerged from the subterranean underbelly of London's mass transit system. They were something of a matching pair, dark hair, black leather jackets, and mild scowls. The only difference was that whereas Angel stood completely still, like a man carved out of stone, Faith couldn't stop fidgeting. Raring to go, she kept shifting her weight from foot to foot. Dean could definitely empathize with that feeling.

"Angel." He nodded in the direction of the vampire.

"Dean." Angel nodded back.

The Slayer snorted at the two of them. "Good. Now that's settled, I swore to Nadira we'd meet her before 10:30. And it's pushing twenty after, so let's get a move on."

Without further discussion, the four fell into an impromptu order, Slayer and vampire at the front, hunter and ace researcher bringing up the rear. No one spoke as they walked the three blocks to Nadira's studio flat, cutting easily through the swathes of other people crowding the sidewalk. They didn't even have to do that much cutting. Half the time, if someone caught a glimpse of their faces, they scurried to get out of the way.

Nadira didn't answer the door. They waited for five minutes while Faith tried Nadira's cell phone and those of her top two Slayer lieutenants. Nadira's phone went straight to voicemail, and neither of the other women had heard from her that evening. With Angel standing guard, Dean picked the flimsy apartment lock and eased the door open. He and Faith slipped in to investigate.

Impeccably neat, the flat was also completely empty. No signs of Nadira, no signs of a struggle. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. As he was returning to the others, Dean's boot crunched down on something hard, with the noise of tinkling china. Lifting his foot, the hunter bent down to examine the crushed ceramic fragments. He gathered them up into his hands.

"Faith, come here." He held his find out for her to see.

"Porcelain," she observed, inspecting the shards between her thumb and forefinger. Cream colored with the occasional fleck of pink, some of the fragments had a rounded, convex edge. The Slayer gnawed on her lip. "Angel."

"What is it?" the vampire asked from the hallway, his tone agitated.

Grabbing Dean by the elbows, Faith dragged him back to the doorway. "Look," she commanded Angel, gesturing to the broken china in Dean's hands. "Look."

"May I?"

"Sure." Dean tipped his discovery into the vampire's outstretched hands. "Knock yourself out."

"It came from a doll, didn't it?" Faith pressed before Angel could finish his own examination. "Didn't it?"

"Certainly looks that way," he admitted. "Damn it, Dru."

At just that moment, Fred's phone rang out, startling them all more than any of them would have liked to admit.

"Hello?" she answered, trying to keep her voice down. She listened intently to the person on the other end of the line, murmuring a brief "Uh huh," or a "Yes, I got it," every few seconds. After a minute or so, the scientist closed with "Thank you," and slipped her phone back into her pocket.

"That was Inspector Brandt," she told the others, naming Angel's contact in the City of London Police. "They've found a body."

* * *

**June 16th, 2009, London, England, 11:00 p.m.**

Dean stared down at the mangled corpse lying on the pavement in front of them, fighting the urge to throw up. He had seen this woman yesterday, had held a vampire down while she staked it, in fact. This was Hélène, one of Nadira's Slayers, a willowy girl in her early twenties. He hardly recognized her. Her honey-colored curls were liberally soaked with blood, making them appear three shades darker. And as for her light blue eyes, someone had gauged them out of her skull and left nothing but gore behind.

"I think we found another bread crumb," Faith said emotionlessly, straightening up from pulling Hélène's eye-lids down to cover those horribly empty sockets.

"Drusilla," confirmed Angel in an unhappy voice. He turned to their accompany police officer, a tall man with close-cropped black hair. "Thanks for calling us in on this, Inspector."

Brandt nodded. "We found this beside the body," he added as he extended a blood stained fragment of paper. On it, someone had written an address.

Angel's lips pursed as he memorized the street name and number. It was ten minutes from their current location by foot. "You send anyone to check this yet?"

The inspector shook his head. "It's right in the depths of Magic Town. None of my men'll go in there. Not after something that does this," he indicated Hélène's broken body.

Faith stepped in closer, peering over the vampire's shoulder at the piece of paper. "And the bread crumbs just keep on coming."

"Thank you again, Brandt. Do you mind if we take this?"

"Go ahead."

Pocketing the piece of paper, Angel glanced a final time at the dead Slayer in the alley. "We'll take care of this," he promised. "I'll let you know what we find out."

He led the other three back down the alley the way they had come. Once they were out of earshot of the police, the vampire read aloud the address that Drusilla had left for them. "Anyone recognize this place?"

Fred spoke up first. "It's an old abandoned factory. We've cleared it out at least twice in the last two weeks. But it wouldn't be hard for something else to move in, set up shop, even if just for the night."

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?" Faith asked without a single trace of humor.

"It's a trap," said Dean automatically.

"Yeah." Angel stuffed the paper back into his pocket. "Of course it's a trap. We're just going to have to make sure that this time, we spring it on them, instead."

* * *

From the outside, the old tannery building looked no different from any of the other three empty warehouses and two abandoned factories on its block. Just a nondescript three-story exterior, no lights showing through the broken windows partially covered with plastic tarpaulins. There was nothing that made it stand out, no obvious reason why Drusilla should have chosen it as her meeting place.

"You're sure this is the right spot?" Dean asked Angel out of the corner of his mouth.

"This is the place," the vampire confirmed, his head turning from side to side as he surveyed the tannery. "We should split up," he said to Faith.

"I was thinking the same thing," she agreed. "I'll take Dean, you take Fred?"

"First one to find Drusilla's a rotten egg?" proposed Dean.

"I think you meant last one to find Nadira?" Fred corrected mildly. She addressed Angel, "What's the plan if we get caught?"

Faith answered for him, "Kill as many vamps as you can, and if all else fails, keep them distracted so the other group can find Nadira and get her out of there."

"If she's in there."

The vampire flashed Dean a keen glance. "She's in there. If she was dead, Dru would have left her body somewhere obvious for us to find. No, Drusilla's been leaving bread crumbs for a reason. She wants to play," he added in a sarcastic tone under his breath.

" _Play_?" The hunter grimaced in disgust. "Well, that's creepy as hell."

"Quite. We'll take the back entrance, Faith. If you two want to take the front..."

"You got it, Angel."

The Slayer waited until Angel and Fred's shadows disappeared around the far corner of the building before letting out a long breath. She efficiently ran her hands over her hips, jacket, and boots in a hasty weapons check.

"You good?" Dean asked in a whisper.

"Yeah. Three stakes, a silver knife, and this -" From the inside pocket of her leather jacket, Faith withdrew a slim syringe. She twisted the needle cap to make sure it was secure and slid the syringe down into the side of her right boot.

The hunter winced. "What's in that?"

"Holy water," the Slayer explained tersely. "Just in case Angel wants to keep Dru around and talk to her before he stakes her."

"You think he's actually going to stake her?"

Faith shrugged. "Guess we'll find out."

Silently, the Slayer led the way in through the heavy front door. She pushed the rusting metal along its track, forcing it to slide back a foot and leaving just enough of a gap for the two of them to slip through.

Reflecting that he spent far too much of his life in abandoned buildings, Dean took a comfortably familiar position a few steps behind and just to the left of Faith. They prowled through a deserted front office and into a long hallway where multiple doors opened out onto the main tannery floor. The whole place stank of leather and acid, a corrosive smell that somehow worked its way far up Dean's nose to burn his sinuses.

It was quiet, the only noise the soft scuffing of their boots on the concrete floor and the occasional whisper of fabric as jackets brushed against jeans. Far too quiet. Dean ran his thumb along the tip of the stake in his left hand. Not for the last time, he dearly wished that vampires were the sort of thing you could just shoot a couple of bullets into and be done.

Faith came to an abrupt halt directly in front of him. Dean nearly tripped over his own feet in an attempt not to run into her. The Slayer's skull swiveled on her neck as she looked from right to left, searching for something in the darkness.

"Something's . . .," she started, but was cut off as several of the doors behind them sprang open, and a dozen vampires poured into the hallway, fangs and yellow-eyes on display.

"Frak," cursed the Slayer. In the half-second it took for the vampires to reach them, she positioned herself at Dean's back.

Without hesitation, hunter and Slayer dove into the fray, punching, kicking, ducking, dodging, and staking. But twelve vampires in such an enclosed space were too many even for them. Although they took out nearly half of their attackers, only a few minutes passed before they were surrounded by fangs and trapped against the wall. Dean was preparing himself to do something drastic when an iron fist crashed down on the top of his head. He crumpled to the ground, and everything was swallowed up in darkness.

 


	81. Long Ago and Far Away, pt 5

**June 16th, 2009, London, England, 11:30 p.m.**

As she followed Angel in through the empty bay of the abandoned loading dock, Fred couldn't help but think out loud. "It's awful quiet in here," she whispered.

The vampire said nothing, simply lifted his black leather-covered shoulders in a shrug. Luckily, Fred had spent over three years learning how to read cryptic Angel body language. That particular shrug, the left shoulder rising just a smidge higher than the right, translated to, "You're right, Fred, but what can we do?"

Or at least, that was how she was choosing to interpret it. There was a lot of potential for operator error involved in her system.

Wrapping her arms tighter around her stomach, Fred wished that some of Illyria's powers had stuck around with her. Not much of them, and definitely not the personality, but she wouldn't have minded being able to freeze time or throwing bits of icy blue flames at whatever nasties were currently planning on sneaking up on them. It would have made things easier.

_Pull yourself together, Winifred Burkle_ , she reminded herself a little hysterically.  _Pull yourself together_.

Still, despite the appropriate bulkiness and shrugging of the shoulders in front of her, she shivered as they encountered a stairway leading down into the bowels of the tannery. Angel looked up and down their current hallway and then began his soft descent into the basement. Gnawing anxiously on her bottom lip, Fred hurried after him. She should have known. There was always something dark and unexpectedly creepy.

_It's like a cave_ , she tried convincing herself.  _Just like Pylea_.

But in no universe was that the right tack to take, and Fred's shivers only increased. She reached for the stake in her coat pocket, already missing the warm solidarity that had been Faith and Dean. She didn't really know either of them that well, especially compared with Angel, but already she missed the comfort of their warm solidity. They were human, and they  _breathed_. And somehow, down in the cold blackness of this factory, that meant a great deal more than cryptically shrugging shoulders.

Angel stopped suddenly, and she collided with the back of his leather jacket. Rubbing regretfully at her nose, the scientist blinked in incomprehension as Angel attempted to explain something to her in quick, emphatic gestures. When that proved unsuccessful, he leant over to whisper into her ear, the chill of his not-breath making her want to shiver all over again.

"There's something breathing behind there." He pointed to a solid steel door at the end of a vestibule just to their right.

Breathing. That was good, Fred thought. If it was breathing, then it wasn't a vampire. Unless it was a demon. Or unoses it was a vampire pretending it was a human, to trick them into opening the door. Her heart rate accelerating, she fumbled for Angel's elbow. She had to stop him, or at least warn him to be careful.

Too late. Angel must have missed the caution train, for he kicked the door down with one snap of his foot and walked straight into the darkened room, moving as jauntily as a family out for a Sunday morning stroll.

With more care, Fred followed suit. Like everything else in this building, the room smelled of harsh chemicals and dead animals. Unlike everywhere else they'd seen so far, however, this room was occupied. A sturdy wooden worktable took up the center of the room, a young woman in her mid-twenties chained to its surface.

Fred flicked on her flashlight, illuminating Nadira's sharp face, pale beneath her olive skin. Though unconscious, the Slayer twisted and turned, moaning softly in her sleep. Her motions revealed just enough of her neck for Fred to see that there were no typical vampire bite marks.

"What did they do to her?" the woman whispered aloud as Angel felt through his pockets for something to unlock the manacles at Nadira's wrists and ankles.

"I'm not sure," said Angel. "But let's figure it out once we've found the others and gotten far away from here, all right?"

* * *

The first thing Faith experienced upon coming to was surprise. She was still alive. There was no way in Hell that being dead could hurt as much as her entire body ached right now. Which meant she was still alive, still breathing.  _Why_  was she still breathing?

The second emotion the Slayer felt was a sort of hopelessness as the significance of that sank in. If she was still alive, it mean that Angel was right: Drusilla was wanting to play.

The pain was the next thing to fully sink in, an agonizing burn in her shoulders and upper arms as they were pulled over her head by something unrelenting. Manacles, the Slayer decided, flexing her wrists from one side to the other. Harder, colder, and smoother than rope, too large and heavy to be handcuffs.

Well, if that didn't just make everything worse. Rope she could imagine breaking; handcuffs weren't that difficult to unlock. But manacles? It meant that whoever had chained her up meant serious business.

Someone slapped her across the face, hard.

"Wake up," snapped a high-pitched voice.

_Sh-t_. Faith opened her eyes, forcing herself not to flinch. There was a vampire standing far too close, her leonine face startlingly white even for a fang who didn't get enough vitamin D. "Drusilla." The Slayer gritted her teeth, as if saying the word poisoned her.

Eyes darting around the room, Faith took in her new surroundings. Someone had dragged her and Dean into the deserted factory floor, chaining them by their arms to the old cast-iron pipes that ran along the wall a foot above shoulder height and had once carried steaming water in and noxious waste away from the great vats a few feet away. A faint glint of light streamed in through the broken windows on the opposite side of the room. The Slayer risked taking her eyes off Drusilla long enough for a glance upwards. Her earlier guess had been right; it was indeed manacles.

A few feet to her left, Dean was chained in a similar position, his chin slumped forward onto his chest.

"Dean?" Faith's voice barely shook. "Dean?" She turned back to the vampire, spit flying from the corners of her mouth. "What did you do to him?" she demanded. "I swear to God, if you hurt him, Dru, I'll -"

"You'll what?" wondered the vampire innocently, tilting her head to one side. She reached forward with one of her pale hands and tapped the side of the Slayer's face with her long, slender fingers.

In half an instant, her expression changed from mild curiosity to a furious scowl. Drusilla slashed down across the Slayer's cheek, slicing it open. Blood trickling down her chin, Faith winced.

The vampire leaned forward, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Faith's skull as she cleaned away the blood with a slow, lazy lick of her tongue. "Delicious," she hissed, pressing her ridged forehead against the Slayer's sweaty one.

"I had forgotten," Drusilla added conspiratorially, her lilting voice breathy against Faith's nose. It reeked of copper and blood and death.

"Only heard the stories," she continued, one hand on either side of her prisoner's shoulders, forcing her to lean from side to side in time with the vampire's own swaying movements. "Legends from others, stories from Spike. Stories, they were. But this, this . . ."

She moved down again to lick the blood pooling on the edge of the wound. The Slayer shuddered in revulsion. "Don't worry, kitten," said Drusilla in her sing-song way. "If you behave, Mommy will go slow. And you!"

Releasing Faith's shoulders, the vampire turned her attention to Dean. She ran the back of one of her skeletal hands across the left side of his face, from hairline to chin and back up again. "The stars have sung to me of you. There's so much gleaming, glittering, whirling, twirling, and it's all about you. Angel sword, sword to defeat the dragon. The serpent. Sssssssss." Laughing, Drusilla stuck her tongue out and hissed, flapping both hands as if to imitate a wriggling snake.

"What does you taste like, I wonder?" she asked the unconscious man. She unfastened the top two buttons on his plaid shirt and tugged the lapels away to the sides so that more of his neck was revealed. "Better," the vampire purred to herself.

"Don't," snapped Faith. "Don't you dare touch him."

This earned her another slap, one that left her ears ringing and spots of bright light flickering at the edges of her vision.

"Dollies shouldn't speak unless they're spoken to," warned Drusilla fiercely. "You be quiet, or I'll put your eyes out like Miss Edith. And then how would you see?"

"You mean like you did Hélène?" Faith demanded, the words slipping past her self-control in her anger.

Drusilla smiled, the corners of her mouth nearly reaching her ears. She tapped Faith lightly on the nose with her index finger. "Such a clever Slayer to put that together."

"Bit more like Angelus than like you, leaving presents for people, isn't it?"

The vampire's grin widened. She didn't deny it. Instead, she only said, "Clever, clever Slayer. But even clever dollies can say too much and lose their sight."

Her attention shifted once again. "And there's so much to see," Drusilla crooned. "Mommy's other guest is awake."

Faith jerked her neck to the side to check in on Dean. He was blinking sluggishly, standing for the most part upright. His eyes met hers, faint panic in their depths. Getting captured had not been part of the plan.

Drusilla floated - there was really no other way to describe it - the few feet back over to the hunter. Gripping his chin in her iron-like fingers, the vampire gazed deep into Dean's green eyes. "So much to see," she echoed. "Pretty and angry and so much pain."

Dancing away again, Dru wrapped her arms around the bodice of her diaphanous white dress and twirled in a circle. "So much pain," she trilled. "It makes me dizzy."

Just as quickly, she was back, her fingertips clamping down against his skin, hard enough to bruise. "What are you doing here?" she asked him rhetorically. "This isn't supposed to be your story - never supposed to be your story. The heavens are humming with fury over you and your brother. All that destiny. Doesn't it grow heavy?"

"Let go of me."

The vampire's eyebrows skyrocketed up her forehead, and she let out a high-pitched squeal of amusement. "And you think it's so easy? Just tell the destiny what to do? It isn't," she snapped. "Not easy at all."

"Where'd your henchmen go, Dru?" wondered Faith aloud, in an attempt to draw the vampire's attention away from her friend.

Drusilla waved her free hand dismissively. "Don't need them. Not now. It's all coming to rights now."

"What's coming to rights?" the Slayer prompted.

Blatantly ignoring her, the vampire continued her deep stare into the hunter's eyes, as if that would allow her deeper access to the soul behind them. "The stars haven't been this excited in centuries," she said petulantly. "All trumpets and hosts and clamoring for war. And here you are, shining with the clamor of the stars. I want to know  _why_."

Drusilla used the one hand that wasn't almost breaking Dean's mandible to form a 'V' with her index and middle fingers. She brought that hand up into the scant space between their two faces, pointing first to her own eyes and then to Dean's, back and forth and over and over. "Be in me," chanted the vampire, her voice laden with something that was more than suggestion. "Be in me."

* * *

"Next time, I'm bringing a set of bolt cutters," Fred mumbled anxiously. Five minutes had passed, and Angel had yet to come up with a way to free Nadira from her chains.

"You got any ideas, I'm more than willing to hear them."

Of course he had heard her. For a brief moment, she had forgotten vampires and their bat-like hearing. Torn between silence and a sassy remark, Fred settled for a sigh. "We've got to get her out of here," she said for the third time, stating the obvious.

Angel ducked down beneath the table to examine the rusted iron fastening Nadira's chains to the floor. "Hand me that sword?"

Fred dutifully passed over the vampire's broadsword. "Don't cut yourself," she warned, more to have something to say than out of concern.

The vampire didn't bother to reply. He set to work carefully hacking away at the rustiest-looking links of the chain. Unsure of what to do, Fred fidgeted in place as she watched the empty doorway through which they had come.

"Any progress?"

"I just started. Give it time."

"Right. I'll just . . . then."

"Gotcha!" Angel whispered in quiet triumph, severing the first chain in two. "That's one down, three to go."

Distracted, Fred mumbled, "That's nice."

A flash of light out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she turned to see that Nadira, who had remained thoroughly and stubbornly unconscious despite all attempts to rouse her, was now sitting bolt upright.

"Oh, good, you're awake." The scientist started forward and then froze in place as Nadira opened her eyes, which glowed a sickly bright green.

Fred felt with her foot beneath the table until her shoe encountered vampire. She kicked Angel solidly in the ribs. "Angel?" Her voice squeaked on the second syllable. "We've got company."

He instantly scrambled out from underneath the table. Sword in hand, Angel moved to Fred's side. "Nadira?"

The thing currently wearing Nadira's body smiled, "Hello, Angel. Long time, no see."

Angel sighed, but none of the tension left his body. He raised his sword to a basic guard position. "Archaeus." It wasn't a question.

Archaeus snapped Nadira's fingers, and the chains disappeared as if they had never been. "You're good at guessing," said the demon.

"I might be," hedged Angel, ever so slowly moving in front of Fred, pushing her back towards the exit. "Or did you ever think that maybe you're just predictable?"

The demon watched his efforts with a wry smile. "We won't be needing her." With a flick of Nadira's wrist, Archaeus sent Fred flying against the far wall. Her head struck the plaster with an audible thump, and she fell to the ground in a motionless heap.

"Ah ah ah!" Archaeus twisted Nadira's other hand, paralyzing Angel where he stood. "Not so fast, my son. You and I need to have a little talk."

* * *

To Faith's unending horror, whatever circus trick Drusilla was pulling appeared to be working. There was something weird, something off in the way Dean was standing. He was slumped forward, breathing deeply and heavily as if he were asleep.

The vampire stepped back from the hunter. "Who will you see?" she wondered to herself. "Who do you need?"

Louder, the vampire said only, "Dean." She called his name three times.

On the third time, the hunter looked up, his eyes wide with surprise, as if he could not believe what he was seeing. "Mom?" croaked the hunter weakly.

" _Sh-t_ ," Faith groaned. "It's not real, Dean. That's not your moth-"

Another slap from Drusilla cut her off mid-syllable. "Be quiet," commanded the vampire, one hand casually resting against Faith's carotid artery, her nail digging suggestively into the skin. "It isn't your turn."

Knowing her limits, Faith relapsed into resentful silence. She gave the factory floor another once over, but the place was still as quiet as an uninhabited grave. There were no signs of Angel and Fred, no hints that the other two had been able to complete their mission. At first, she had been vaguely willing to play along, to distract the crazy vampire while her friends searched for Nadira, but no longer. It was time to get the Hell out of here, through whatever means necessary.

Unfortunately, there weren't many means available. Her arms had started to grow numb from being suspended for so long. Dammit, this was why Faith hated manacles. They made everything so much more difficult.

Glancing above her a second time, she gave the manacles an experimental wiggle. The chain linking them together was fastened to a ring in the wall behind her head. Faith tugged, pushing her wrists forward against the manacles. The ring wobbled the tiniest degree.

That was enough. She twisted her arms backwards and forwards and from side to side, in a slow attempt to work the ring free from the plaster before Drusilla could cause any permanent damage.

"Dean." The vampire stroked the side of his face gently. "Oh, my poor boy, what have they done to you?"

"Mom," gasped the hunter. "What are you doing here? Where did . . ."

"Shhh." Drusilla held a finger to his lips. "It's all right. I'm here now."

The more she spoke, the less surety he possessed. "But the vampires - and Faith -"

"Shhh." The vampire in question kissed his forehead. "You don't have to worry about them. Mother's here now, and you don't have to worry anymore."

_Of all the_  - Faith clenched her teeth against the scream that was building up inside of her. Interrupting Drusilla wasn't going to help anything. She channeled all her rage into working against her chains. She'd fought worse things with her hands tied. Well . . . maybe not worse ones. But it definitely was not an unfamiliar experience.

"What do those angels want from you?" Drusilla was murmuring now.

"Don't you know?" choked Dean hysterically. "You're in Heaven. I must have died; that's why I can see you."

"Angels can be very complicated," hedged the vampire. She hesitated, and then continued, "And your brother?"

"I failed him, Mom," the hunter admitted. His voice cracked on the last word. "He's . . . he's . . . Can you look out for him?"

"Of course," Drusilla was quick to assure him. "I always do. Guardian angels, remember?"

The hunter choked again. "I . . . I wish guardian angels meant what you said they did. I'm . . . I'm so sorry. I've let you down - let Dad down. I was supposed to take care of Sammy, and now I don't think I can do that anymore."

Finished with her little interview, Drusilla snapped her fingers. Sweating and pale, Dean blinked his way back to a horrified awareness of what had just happened. Pushing against the concrete beneath his feet, he backed as far away from the vampire as his chains would allow him to.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded, his voice shaking with a mixture of rage and fear. "What did you do to me?"

Drusilla bopped him lightly on the nose. "Shhhh. Mommy need to make a decision." Tired of her project for the moment, she addressed Faith, "I have an idea."

"Do you really?" the Slayer snarked.

The vampire magnanimously ignored this moment of poor taste. "Daddy tortured the Slayer. Spike killed two. But do you know what neither of them has done - what _no one_  has done?"

"No, but if you hum a few bars, I can fake it."

Refusing to be so easily riled, Drusilla continued as if she had not heard. Her eyes glowed with excitement, great round pale discs that seemed to swallow up the rest of her face. "No one has ever changed a Slayer."

Desperate to keep the vampire's attention while Dean got himself together, Faith proceeded with the antagonism parade. "You mean like their diapers? Or are we talking more of a makeover kind of deal?"

"Don't pretend to be stupid," said Drusilla sulkily. She ran her dark red tongue along the edges of her top fangs and eyed Dean speculatively. "There's only one real question, isn't there?"

"Boxers or briefs?" proposed Faith. "'Cause, frankly, I'm can't always tell with this guy."

"No-o. The question is, which of you will be the turned and which will be the turner." Her good humor restored, the vampire executed another one of her whirling spins. She clapped her hands together gleefully. "Oh, yes!"

"And I don't care for the nasty stars," she added as an afterthought. "Singing and screaming that the Angel sword isn't to be touched. 'Not for the likes of you, not for the likes of you,'" she mocked some invisible presence. "That much beauty and that much agony . . . he belongs to me, not to the distant cold ones."

"Kinda think he belongs to himself. Or maybe to Sam. Hard to know with those two."

"Not helping, Faith," Dean spat between gritted teeth. "Not helping."

Frustrated, the Slayer rolled her eyes upwards, discreetly checking her progress. The ring was nearly a third of the way out of the wall. In a pinch, she could probably slam her way to freedom right now, but the likelihood of dislocating one or both of her shoulders was just a little too great to risk it.

As she looked back down, movement in the corner of her eye caught Faith's attention. She glanced to her right as one of the doors behind Drusilla slowly eased open, inch by inch. Faith hardly dared to breathe.

_Please let that be someone on our side_ , she thought desperately.

When the door had opened halfway, Angel slipped into the room. His eyes caught hers, and he nodded, an almost infinitesimally small gesture. Nadira and Fred were safe. The Slayer could breathe again.

It was okay. They were all going to be okay. And with Angel here, the Slayer could risk a dislocated joint or two.

She threw all of her weight forward against the manacles, inwardly cringing as the metal crashed into the abrasions on her skin. The ring remained stuck in the wall. Faith threw herself forward one, two, three, more times, until the ring finally worked itself loose. She stumbled onto her knees and then sprang to her feet, a stake already in her hands.

The Slayer had been expecting chaos the moment she broke free, but no one had moved. Drusilla was watching her, a look of - was that  _pleasure_? - plastered across her face. Faith's eyes flicked to Dean whose face was a rictus of horror. She glanced back to where Angel had been seconds previous, but the vampire with a soul was gone.

A pair of hands, their grip harder than iron and colder than ice, closed on her upper arms. The person grabbing her from behind tossed her to the ground.

Her stake flying out of her grasp, Faith landed flat on her stomach and quickly rolled over onto her back, unable to bring her chained wrists up in time to protect her face. Blood streamed down from her nose, and the Slayer hastily blinked away tears of pain.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, preparing to kick back up onto her feet, but that same iron cold grip latched onto her knees and dragged them back down. A heavy boot settled itself on her sternum, pressing down with just enough force to make it nearly impossible for her to take in any air.

"Hey, baby," purred the demon with the face of an angel as he stared down at her. "Miss me?"


	82. Long Ago and Far Away, pt 6

* * *

_"Hey, baby,"_   _purred the demon with the face of an angel as he stared down at her. "Miss me?"_

The Slayer's face crumpled, and she croaked out, "Angelus?"

"Good guess."

She attempted to scramble away on her heels and elbows, but the vampire shoved his boot harder into her sternum, and she subsided into stillness. Her gaze swept the room, in a hysterical hope that someone might still jump out and yell 'Surprise!'

No such luck. Only Dean, whose expression of dread almost matched the pit of despair that had laid claim to Faith's insides. And, of course, Drusilla, watching Angelus with rapt admiration and a healthy dose of lust, looking at him the same way that bass player had used to look at Faith when he thought he was going to get laid.

"Daddy's home!" the vampire exclaimed with glee, clapping her hands and hopping up and down on the spot. "Daddy's home."

Angelus upped the pressure on Faith's ribs, drawing her complete attention back to him. "It's been a while, hasn't it, baby?" Removing his foot, the vampire crouched down over her and straddled her hips. He grabbed the lapels of Faith's leather jacket and jerked her into an upright sitting position, his nose a few centimeters away from her bloodied one. "And I'm starting to get the feeling that you aren't that excited to see me. That kinda hurts, Faithy."

The Slayer stared deep into those brown eyes that haunted her nightmares and hawked a giant, frothy ball of spit directly into them.

Unperturbed, Angelus wiped the slobber off with the back of his hand. "Nice to see you've classed up in the time I've been gone. What is it - almost six years now? Six years of listening to Angel's inane babble and guilt trips. Gotta say though - that moment when he snapped the Watcher's neck - that was almost worth letting that soppy son of a bitch take the driver's seat."

Refusing to take the bait, Faith said, "Where's Fred?"

"Unconscious . . . for the time being. I had more important things to deal with." The vampire turned to Drusilla. As his line of sight slid over Dean, Angelus frowned in irritation. "Why's the boy still alive?"

"The stars sing of him," trilled Dru. "And I thought Daddy might want to know what starlight tastes like."

"You would think that, wouldn't you?" Angelus noted with dry humor. He gave the hunter another appraising glance and then returned his too-intense stare to the woman pinioned beneath him. "Must admit, Faithy, your taste in men has improved a little. 'Least this one's less of a drag than Angel."

In a vain attempt to dislodge him, the Slayer planted her boots firmly against the concrete floor and gave her hips a powerful twist. Angelus didn't move an inch. Instead, he just laughed and tugged her even closer to him. "Want to know a secret? Sometimes Angel lies awake, wishing the walls between the two of you were a little thinner. And sometimes, when he hears the things you say at night, getting all warm and . . . excited, sometimes he gets a little excited, too. That doesn't bother you, does it?"

"Liar." Faith spat in his face a second time.

Once again, Angelus wiped away her spittle. "Now that wasn't very nice," he commented, his voice like cool silk. He caught hold of her ponytail and yanked it backwards. Faith was surprised how much that hurt. "And we were just starting to get reacquainted. Careful now, Faithy," the vampire warned. "You'll make me rush things."

"What happened to Angel?"

"Dust in the wind," said Angelus with a touch of mania.

"How?" demanded the Slayer.

"Does it matter? Sad sack's gone, baby. It's just you and me now. Well, us, and Dru, and your boyfriend. But don't worry; he won't be around for long."

His brain finally spooling into action, Dean landed on an idea. Whispering, he prayed, "Castiel, we need you now. Address is -"

The hunter was cut off mid-sentence by Angelus's meaty palm crashing into his trachea. Keeping his other hand at the base of the Slayer's hair, Angelus had dragged her across the floor, and now he slowly strangled Dean with his free hand, eyes burning with fierce pleasure as he squeezed the other man's throat. His arms still chained above his head, Dean was unable to do anything other than choke.

"Leave him alone!" bellowed the Slayer, attempting to use her legs to push herself into a standing position. "Leave him alone."

Height and his grip on her ponytail giving him leverage, Angelus twisted his hand and shoved the Slayer's skull, forcing her onto her knees. "Or what?" he asked in amusement. "You'll threaten me?"

Faith's panic surged as Dean's eyes rolled back in his head. "Look - whatever you want, Angelus, do it to me. I'm the one you've got a problem with. Leave him out of it."

As the hunter passed out, his knees bent, and his body went slack against the restraining manacles. Angelus removed his hand, palm spread wide open as if to say 'no harm, no foul.'

"I have always kind of wanted to see you on your knees," he admitted to Faith, smiling cheerfully. The vampire grabbed her shoulder and pulled her even closer to him, her knees scraping against the concrete. "Mind giving me a little help while you're down there?"

From her position at the approximate level of his belt buckle, Faith glared up at him with burning resentment. "Sorry,  _babe_. I don't do bloodsuckers. You want someone to help get your rocks off, you shoulda called Buffy."

"Hmm." Angelus picked the Slayer up by the waist and threw her a dozen feet across the room. Faith landed in a tangle of aching limbs and curled into a ball, the fingers of her right hand brushing against the top edge of her boot. "That's not a bad idea. Maybe I will. Later."

"Poor Drusilla. Guess you don't really care about her, do you?"

Angelus spared a single glance for the woman he had tortured into insanity. A sly grin hovering at the corners of her mouth, she was just taking it all in, content to bask now that her Daddy had returned. "Dru knows the drill. I settle a few old scores, and then I'm all hers."

A slight moan behind him drew his attention. Angelus smirked. "Good news, Faith. Your boyfriend's waking up. Just in time for the big finale."

"Finale already?" coughed Faith. "Damn, you really can't get it up anymore, can you? Or is it that you just can't keep it up?" As the vampire approached her this time, she kicked up to her feet, ready to meet him. When he reached for her shoulders, Faith flipped open the cap of the syringe hidden in her hand. She jammed the needle into the muscle of his thigh and pushed the plunger, injecting a stream of holy water into his quadriceps.

Although he hissed in pain, Angelus did not relinquish his grip on her. Rather, he tossed her up against the wall next to Dean, slamming his forearm right underneath her chin. Faith was forced to stand on tiptoe to prevent him from cutting off her air supply.

With his left hand, the vampire pulled the syringe out from his leg and discarded off to the side with an air flick of his wrist. He smiled, the terrifying grin of the completely sane. "That hurt. I liked it."

Arm still pressed up against Faith's throat, he turned to the hunter, whose eyes had just begun to flicker open. "Tell me, Dean. You ever wonder why your little girlfriend here's never been possessed? No tattoo, no charms, practically has a sign on her reading 'Dean Winchester's Number Two Weakness,' and no demon's ever tried to jump down inside that tempting little meatsuit?"

"What are you going on about?" choked Dean. He was still having trouble getting enough air into his protesting lungs.

"Here's the deal, Dean-boy." Angelus gripped the back of Faith's leather jacket and wrenched it down on the right, baring her shoulder and the spiky, spiraled tattoo just above her elbow that had always reminded Dean of barbed wire. "Now, you see, every Slayer, she's got a bit of demon in her. It's how they were made. But do you know what this is?" He ran a single finger along the tattoo, tracing its spirals and curves. Faith kicked him in the shin, and he didn't even flinch.

"It's a tattoo," said Dean. "So what?" He had started rubbing the edge of one of his manacles against his opposite wrist. The longer they kept these vampires talking, the more of a chance he had to break the skin. If Angelus and Drusilla were anything like other vamp, the scent of new blood might distract them long enough for Faith to make a break for it. At least that way, one of them had a chance of getting out of here.

"It's the mark of Kakistos," the vampire corrected him. "Means she belongs to him. No lowlife black cloud of sulfur smoke would dare to touch that."

"Kakistos is dead," snarled Faith, shoving her knee upwards in the direction of Angelus's groin. "I killed that bastard."

Angelus moved aside just in time, so that her knee slammed into the outside of his thigh instead. "Doesn't matter. Mark still makes you his property. But you know what, Faithy? I'm gonna change that. You won't belong to some fat old hooved vampire anymore. I'm gonna set you free."

"And how exactly are you going to do that?" The Slayer could think of several horrible ways off the top of her head; she only hoped that Angelus's imagination was a little slow after six years in the depths of Angel's consciousness.

He continued as if she had not spoken. "I'm going to remake you, right down to the bone. And when I'm finished, he's going to be the first thing you eat." The vampire nodded his head in Dean's direction. "And you're going to be the last thing he sees before he dies. Now how does that sound?" He released the pressure on her airway a fraction so that Faith could answer without gasping.

"Frak you."

"In a little bit. Dinner first."

That insufferable smirk shifted into yellow eyes with vertically-slitted pupils and jagged, irregular yellow fangs. Dropping his arm from Faith's windpipe, Angelus shoved her shoulders into the wall, hard. He buried his face in the Slayer's neck, his teeth ripping past skin and muscle to reach the veins beneath. The vampire angled his bite posteriorly to pierce the external jugular. He wanted to take his time on this one.

Once, during a late night bull-sh-tting session in Buffy's apartment in San Francisco, B had unbent enough to compare notes with Faith on vampire bites. They'd started the night out with inexpensive red wine, working their way through a whole bottle of tequila. As they tossed back the final dregs of clear liquid, her voice slurred almost past recognition, Buffy had finally admitted what Angel drinking from her had felt like. Her cheeks moderately flushed from a combination of alcohol and embarrassment, she had described the feeling as being "weirdly hot," and then Buffy had gone on ahead to ask Faith what it had felt like to her.

Faith could still remember her response. She had swallowed the last traces of alcohol before speaking. Her answer had been delivered with a grimace - both at the afterburn of the tequila and the memory of Angelus. "Like death," she had said simply and then retreated to the bathroom to wash her mouth out and brush her teeth, but not before seeing a look of intense relief flash briefly across the other Slayer's face.

Now, trapped between a solid wall and an equally solid Angelus, Faith knew with absolute certainty that it had been her talking and not the tequila when she answered Buffy that night. It felt exactly like death. And while the Faith of six years ago had been willing to die in order to finally even the scales of redemption, this Faith was not. She pounded against Angelus with every bit of strength remaining to her, slamming her fists into his stomach and kicking out with her right foot.

It didn't matter. The vampire only laughed against her skin and drank deeper. With every second, the burn passing through Faith's entire body intensified. Her still-manacled arms fell limply at her hips. Off to the side, she could hear Dean bellowing something and metallic clinking as he struggled against his chains. Drusilla slapped him for his trouble, her pealing laughter echoing off the walls of the tannery floor.

_And this is how it all ends_ , Faith thought bleakly as she buckled at the knees, Angelus's vise-like grip the sole thing holding her upright.  _No bang, no whimper, just Angelus._   _Guess I shoulda known_.

"I wondered where the stench of human blood was coming from."

Angelus slowly lifted his head from the Slayer's neck. Licking his crimson-stained lips, he surveyed the newcomer. "Illyria. Thought you were dead."

"As did I." The former god stood in one of the several doorways at the far end of the tannery floor. While she still wore Fred's clothing, the scientist's light brown hair was now liberally streaked with dark blue, and her already pale skin had faded to a corpse-like white, her lips and forehead also tinged blue. Illyria's eyes glowed the same electric cobalt. She cocked her head to one side, observing the scene before her. "Apparently, I was only sleeping."

Before either vampire could respond, she raised one of her hands in a closed fist and then opened her fingers. The gesture flung both Angelus and Drusilla across the room, away from their prisoners. Without Angelus to keep her standing, Faith collapsed to the ground with barely enough clarity of thought to press the ball of her hand against her bleeding throat.

Ignoring the humans, Illyria turned to Angelus. "You are not Angel," she observed thoughtfully. "The same half-breed, and yet not the same."

The Old One inhaled deeply. "And it is here, too. All over you." She gestured to the vampires. "The upstart Archaeus has been here. You are of his get, are you not, half-breed?"

For a moment, Angelus said nothing. Then, "I take it you sent him back, then? Or did you just kill the vessel?"

"The mutant Nadira?" Illyria paused, considering. "I have no quarrel with her. I cleansed her and sent her on her way."

"So -" Angelus started, but Ilyria held up a hand to stop him.

"Silence, half-breed." As ever, her words were articulate, each syllable clear and powerful. Somehow, she managed to make even indefinite articles sound like an incantation. "You wish to speak of sides, of alliances. I have no desire for either. I tired of my allegiance with Angel. Something tells me I would also tire of you. Besides," she indulged herself in a reflective smile, "I never thought highly of Archaeus or his works."

After a brief pause, she added, "I was once known as Illyria the Merciless. There was a time when I delighted to watch the struggles of the apes and the demons. A struggle seems to be once again in the offing. In light of that, you may have this at my hand. In this single instance, I will allow you to depart unscathed."

She closed her fist, releasing the vampires. Whimpering, Drusilla rubbed at her arms and tugged at Angelus's elbow. He merely looked at the Old One appraisingly.

"Next time," Illyria warned, "I will not be so kind."

"Message received." Angelus spared one final glance for the bloodied Slayer at the opposite end of the tannery floor. "This isn't the end, Faithy," he called, his tone a sinister caress. "You and me, we'll be seeing each other soon."

Not bothering to wait for a reply, he and Drusilla vanished, gone as if they had never been.

Satisfied, Illyria turned to consider her remaining company. "And then there's you."

"Please," Faith whimpered, gingerly rising to her feet.

The Old One snapped her fingers, and the manacles dropped from both the humans' wrists. Dean nearly fell on his face, catching himself heavily on one knee. Limping over to him, Faith moved to stand as a shield between the hunter and the former god.

"Illyria," she said, half-plea, half-warning.

"Faith," replied Illyria evenly. "Winifred Burkle thinks highly of you."

"She's still in there?"

Illyria frowned. "Yes. And she will not be silent about relinquishing control of this body. It is despite of her protestations and not because of them that I have done this." She indicated the fallen chains.

"What on -" Dean started, completely unable to make sense of what was going on.

"You should leave," the Old One advised. "Before I change my mind."

"Right," said Faith. "We got it. What you said earlier, about Nadira - did you mean that? That she got out okay?"

"The mutant left this place of her own accord. I believe the mortal term is 'under her own steam.'"

"Thanks. We'll, uh, we'll be going now. C'mon, Dean." She nudged the hunter with her shin, urging him to his feet.

"But Fred -"

"I'll explain it to you later." Faith attempted to keep the fear out of her voice. She lowered her tone. "Now will you please help me out of here? Illyria isn't kidding - she  _will_  change her mind if we don't hurry."

Abandoning his thousand and one questions, Dean surged upright. He slipped an arm beneath the Slayer's shoulders and supported her as they slowly hobbled away from the shell of their friend and the ancient demon currently inhabiting her and slunk off into the hostile London night.

 


	83. Long Ago and Far Away, pt 7

 

* * *

They had put half a block between themselves and the old tannery when Faith spoke, her voice strained. "Injury report?"

"Couple of bruises, possible sprained wrist," answered Dean. He turned his head, surveying their surroundings. This street appeared deserted, but all that really meant was that it provided a multitude of opportunities for someone to jump out at them. "You?"

"Nose, throat, maybe a cracked rib. That's all I'm gonna think about right now. Find us a taxi?"

In light of the potential cracked rib, Dean slid his arm further down around her waist. "You got it."

Unfortunately, cabs rarely frequented Magic Town, and they were forced to hobble another half-mile before Dean was able to flag down a passing taxi. He helped Faith into the empty backseat and then slipped in himself, giving the cabbie the address of Faith's flat. It was the only address he knew, really.

The fifteen minute drive across Central London seemed to last an eternity. With the cab driver in earshot, Dean didn't dare give voice to any of his questions. Faith had shrunk down into her leather jacket, the collar pulled up nearly to her ears to mask the dried blood that still liberally coated her nose, chin, and throat. She stared unrelentingly out the rear window of the taxi, gripping her seatbelt with bone-white fingers.

When the cab finally arrived at her apartment building, the Slayer was out of the car in an instant. She waited impatiently on the sidewalk while Dean paid the driver. As soon as he stepped onto the pavement, she rushed inside the shining glass doors.

"Evening, Ms. Lehane," the doorman greeted her. If he noticed her blood-stained face, he made no comment.

"Hiya, Charles," mumbled Faith in response, jamming her thumb against the 'up' elevator button. "You happen to see my roommate tonight by any chance? Tall, big shoulders, kinda looks like Frankenstein, only a bit more symmetrical?"

Dean caught up with her in time to hear Charles answer in the negative. The elevator doors opened smoothly. With a quick, "Oh, thanks, then," Faith hurried into the elevator and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

"I know you've got questions," she said quietly, her arms folded across her chest to support her aching ribs. "But can you hold onto those for a little while? We've got a lotta work to do first."

"You're still bleeding," Dean observed.

Faith sighed. "Yeah. I'll get to that. Eventually." She paused at the door to her flat, hesitating with her key poised just outside the lock.

"Think they beat us home?" The hunter voiced her fears.

"Charles didn't see Angelus. But just in case . . . better prepared than dead." Faith fumbled in the top of her left boot for a stake. Armed, she twisted the key in the lock and pushed the heavy front door backward on its hinges with nary a creak.

Moving stiffly, she explored her flat and checked behind every door and inside every closet. "We're clear!" she yelled when she finished in the study.

Dean met her in the hallway. "What now?"

The Slayer tucked her stake back into the side of her boots. "Now, we get to work." She swayed where she stood, and Dean steadied her at the shoulders.

"You sure you don't need to go to the hospital? How much blood have you lost?"

"I'll be fine," Faith insisted. Pushing past him, she entered her bedroom and shoved open the closet door. The Slayer shifted piles of boots, heels, and the occasional pair of flip-flops away from the left rear corner until she uncovered a beat-up shoebox. "Here we go."

As she set the shoebox on her desk, the hunter leaned in closer. Faith lifted the lid to reveal a large wooden cross, a few Bic lighters, a half-filled water bottle, a printed sheet of paper containing six lines of text in an outdated font, and several bundles of what looked like dried moss, each tied with a faded blue ribbon. Satisfied, the Slayer tucked the box beneath her elbow and limped her way back to the front door.

"Hold this." She handed Dean the box and took out one of the lighters, the water bottle, and a bundle of moss. Forehead wrinkled in concentration, Faith laid the lid of the shoebox down on her wooden entryway. She placed the moss in the center of the cardboard and sprinkled it liberally with some of the water from the bottle. Then, Faith coaxed the plants into burning with her lighter.

Returning the water bottle and lighter to the box, the woman retrieved the cross and the printed incantation. She held the cross at arm's length, a few inches away from the doorframe, cleared her throat, and began.

It sounded like Latin, but she was reading too quickly for Dean to make any of it out. As she reached the end of the ritual, the Slayer's words slowed. ". . . hicce verbis, consensus recissus est," she finished.

The smoldering moss burst into spontaneous flame, the tongues of fire reaching almost a foot off the ground. It burned for twenty seconds and then just as suddenly extinguished itself, leaving nothing but a pile of ashes. Amazingly, the shoebox lid itself remained unscorched.

Faith slumped against the wall, exhausted. "One thing down. Just try coming back now, you sonnuvabitch."

There was no need to ask who she was referring to. Still . . . "What was that?" asked Dean, wondering if he could start down his laundry list of questions now.

"Vampire un-invite spell." The Slayer pushed herself away from the wall and dragged herself towards the kitchen. "It'll keep Angelus out, unless some idiot invites him. And given that this is  _my_ apartment, and I only have houseguests, not roommates, that idiot would have to be me. And G-d knows, I'm not that stupid."

Tugging open the refrigerator, Faith fumbled inside. There was too much pig's blood and not enough people food. She was going to have to do something about that. Finally, her hand closed on the target of her search, and she yanked out a liter bottle of pale blue Gatorade.

Her legs shook slightly as the Slayer unscrewed the cap. She downed the entire bottle in a matter of seconds without pausing to come up for air. After she set the empty Gatorade container on the kitchen table, Faith wiped her mouth with the back of one hand and turned to look at Dean.

"Closest I'm gonna get to a blood transfusion," she explained shortly. "Should replace most of the plasma volume, anyway. I'll have to remember to restock next time I go to Tesco's."

Not bothering to wait for a response, Faith continued, "You should take a shower, get some bandages on your wrists. Those look pretty nasty, and you won't want them to get infected. Toss your laundry in the machine while you're at it."

Dean's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. "I'm not the one who's still oozing hemoglobin right now," he reminded her. "What about you?"

The Slayer brushed away his concern. "I'm not finished yet. I gotta call Buffy first. Then I'll deal with all this." She gestured to the kaleidoscope of red and blue that was her face. "So go ahead."

"You're being freakishly calm," Dean noted, thoroughly weirded out. "The box with the Vamp-Be-Gone kit inside of it, all that Gatorade in your fridge . . . Almost seems like you were waiting for this to happen."

Faith gave him a bleak smile, her phone already in her hand. "Always a risk, with Angel's soul attached as loosely as it is. Like I said earlier, better prepared than dead. Now go get your ass in the shower."

Accepting that this was a battle he wasn't going to win, Dean wandered away towards the bedroom to find his duffel. As he started to close the door behind him, he heard Faith's voice carrying faintly from the kitchen. "Hey, B. Sorry to bother you, but there's something you should know. He's back."

* * *

The hunter showered quickly, just taking enough time to scrub the top few layers of dust and muck off of his skin. After toweling off, he pulled on a dark gray henley and his last clean pair of jeans. He had barely finished doing up the buckle on his belt when the Slayer knocked sharply on the door. "You decent?"

"As decent as I'm gonna be."

Faith pushed her way into the master bathroom and started disrobing. Wincing every time she had to lift her arms above her waist, she stripped down to her bra and underwear.

"Mind getting the big first-aid kit out of the linen closet?" It was more of an order than a request.

"Not a problem." The hunter bent down to grab Faith's ruined clothing; he'd drop it off in the washing machine. Dean slipped out into the hallway, pretending that he didn't notice the soft whimper that accompanied his exit.

By the time he returned, having taken a little extra time to complete an errand of his own, Faith had the shower going at full power. The opaque door blurred his view of her - not that he was interested in catching a glimpse of the Slayer naked - but the hunter could still make out the flecks of red in the water that splashed against the glass walls of the shower. Placing the industrial-sized first-aid kit on the slate countertop, Dean took his sweet time applying antibiotic ointment to the scraped skin of his wrists.

Once he had counted to seventy-five in his head, he figured it was safe enough to start asking some of his questions. "What did you tell Buffy?"

"The truth," came the answer from the shower, somewhat dampened by the relentless drumming of water against tile. "Told her I needed Willow to get here ASAP."

"Why Willow?"

Faith took her time answering, each sentence punctuated with a quick, shallow breath. "To ram a soul back up Angelus's ass. It's bad enough having Drusilla to deal with, but then you add in Angelus, and Illyria gone rogue, and whatever that Archaeus demon dude is up to?"

She chuckled a little hysterically. "Nuh uh. I am not dealing with all of that on my own. Easiest one to tackle's re-ensouling Angel. Willow's done it twice before, so as soon as she gets here, she can make with the mojo and poof! One less problem for me to solve. Hand me a towel?"

"And what did Buffy say to that?" Dean grabbed the largest, fluffiest dry towel hanging on the rail by the sink and passed it through the open crack in the shower door.

There was another pause while Faith dried herself off. Finally, she said, "That it sounds like we've got too much stuff going on for just Willow. So B's gonna send in the cavalry. Her, Will, Spike, maybe one or two others . . . they'll be here in a few hours, soon as they get some things together for the re-ensoul spell."

Dean glanced down at his watch. "Faith. It's three in the morning."

"Yeah." The Slayer stepped out of the shower, her towel securely fastened and pulled all the way up to her armpits. Moving a little less gingerly now, she approached the bathroom mirror and took in her own reflection. After taking a second to mentally prepare herself, Faith gripped the bridge of her nose and gave it an experimental wiggle. "Okay," she exhaled. "That hurt. But good news, I'm pretty sure it's not broken."

"Here." Dean removed a tube of antibiotic ointment, a large gauze pad, and a roll of medical tape from the first-aid kit. "Let me help you with that."

Faith closed her eyes while the hunter stepped up behind her and forced herself to hold still as he smeared the yellowish goop over Angelus's parting gift. Thankfully, he worked quickly, and soon his hands were replaced by the much less bothersome light brush of gauze. Ripping four pieces of tape off the roll, Dean secured the edges of the gauze pad. He smoothed down the ends of the tape over her skin so that none of them stuck up to catch on anything.

"Thanks," the Slayer said softly, straightening out her neck. She tossed her head from side to side until her dark hair obscured the bandage. Faith would rather not be reminded of her almost-career as vampire chow.

With a silent shrug, Dean picked up more gauze out of the kit. "Want me to do your wrists?"

"Sure." Faith's forearms were even more chafed and raw than Dean's had been. As he efficiently rubbed more antibiotic ointment over the reddened skin, Faith continued to examine herself in the mirror.

"Kinda glad Fred and I cleaned the apartment yesterday," she thought aloud. "Day before yesterday, I mean. Since it looks like we're going to have company and all."

"Speaking of company," Dean looked up from his task, and their eyes met for a brief moment. He cleared his throat. "Since they're not going to be here for a few hours, why don't you get some sleep?"

Not even pausing to consider the suggestion, Faith shook her head and retracted her bandaged forearms from his grip. "I'm good. Oh, look..." She stared down at the gauze encircling her wrists. "I've got manacles again," she announced with a twisted smile. "Only this time, they're the fluffy kind!"

"I'm not touching that one," said Dean. He stuffed all the unused medical supplies back into the first-aid kit and snapped the latches shut. "Come find me in the kitchen when you finish - I'm gonna try and see if I can cobble together something edible. Unless you know of a place that delivers hamburgers in the middle of the night?" he tacked on hopefully.

"G-d, I wish." Faith rubbed at her towel-clad stomach. "That actually sounds good."

* * *

Leaving her to her own devices, the hunter made his way across the flat to the kitchen. After a brief pit stop in the living room to turn on the television, more for the comfort of having some background noise than anything, Dean set to work exploring the fridge and freezer. There wasn't much left that was edible, other than condiments, but he found a half-full carton of eggs and the end of a block of cheddar cheese. It would have to do.

While the skillet on the stovetop warmed up, he cracked the eggs into a bowl and added a quick shot of water, a bit of garlic powder, and a couple shakes each of salt and pepper. Dean poured the egg mixture into the hot skillet and shredded what was left of the cheese. Then he shoved a couple of waffles out of the depths of the freezer down into the toaster. For the first time realizing how thirsty he was, the hunter drank his way through three glasses of water as the eggs sizzled.

Everything had finished cooking, and Dean was just scooping the cheese-laden eggs onto two plates when Faith wandered in, wearing tight black jeans and a dark maroon sweater. She eased herself onto one of the barstools at the kitchen table. The toes of her incredibly fuzzy blue socks peeped out from beneath her jeans. Faith braced her elbows on the table and watched as Dean brought the two plates over to her.

Wet hair combed behind her ears, her face haggard with exhaustion, the Slayer hoovered up her food in two minutes flat. While Dean finished eating at a less caveman pace, she retrieved another giant container of Gatorade and polished that off as well.

They did the dishes together, one washing, the other loading the dishwasher. It was a familiar routine, the only departure from normal being that this time, neither of them was making sarcastic cracks something or another. No one had the energy.

When the last fork had been scrubbed clean and tucked into the silverware holder on the dishwasher's bottom shelf, Faith retreated to the living room. She collapsed onto the couch and jumped from one channel to the next until she landed on something she liked.

Dean hesitated in the doorway, his mouth half-open as if he had something to say. Faith looked up at him expectantly. Before he could work out a way to express whatever was on his mind, the dryer beeped impatiently, and he left to go collect whatever it was.

Resigning herself to the weirdness that was her friend, Faith kept thumbing the remote. Sure, it was three a.m., but still - there  _had_  to be something decent on somewhere. She was so deeply involved in her search that she failed to hear Dean's footsteps as he returned. She didn't even notice him at all until a heavy warm cloud that smelled of lavender and dryer sheets descended on her from above, encircling her shoulders.

The Slayer clutched her heated comforter to her shoulders. "I'm still not going to sleep," she warned. The couch cushions dipped next to her as Dean sat down, his leg and shoulder brushing hers through the thick fabric.

He leaned forward and dragged the coffee table over to the couch. Pleased with his handiwork, Dean propped his feet up on the dark wood surface and wiggled the gray toes of his white socks. "I know." He casually draped one arm across the back of the couch in her general direction. "What're we watching?"

Giving in to the inevitable, Faith scooted over the last few inches and leaned her head back against his arm. She sat cross-legged inside her blanket cocoon and fiddled with the volume on the remote. "Battlestar Galactica reruns," she announced as a blond woman in faded military fatigues and overlapping tank tops clambered out of some strange-looking black spaceship and first embraced and then was kissed by a brunette man wearing a similar uniform.

"You're such a nerd." But Dean kept his mouth shut after that. They got all the way to the next commercial break before he added, "I didn't think you were into Sci-fi."

"I'm not. Andrew got me hooked. Whenever he stayed here, he always managed to find Galactica on the TV. Didn't matter what day it was, what time of day it was - it's like he's got some weird mind control over the programming. Eventually, I sat down and watched it with him. It's not bad. Besides, it's all about  _them_ ," Faith pointed to the blond woman and the brunette man, who were currently standing in some sort of locker room messing with each other.

"She's easy enough on the eyes, and I guess he's okay?" hazarded Dean.

" _Okay_?" teased Faith. "Have you seen those cheekbones? And those blue eyes? But that's not why I like them."

"I'll bite. Why do you like them?"

"Because they're freaking Starbuck and Apollo. Because even when they're fighting - and trust me, they do some really awful crap to each other. I mean, wow, do they make Buffy and some of her boyfriends look functional. Not that they're together or anything," Faith added hurriedly. "But the thing is, no matter what crap they're involved in, they've always each other's wingmen. And they watch each other's six, and they're flying legends. When it's Starbuck and Apollo, there's nothing they can't do, no enemy they can't take down."

"Andrew really did a number on you. didn't he?"

Eyes fixed on the television screen, the Slayer groaned, "I know. It's the worst."

"Mmm." Dean waited until the next commercial break and then brought up something else on his mind. "Back there at the tannery, something Angelus said..."

Faith eyed him warily. "Yeah?"

"About you and Angel - well, more about Angel and you . . ."

"Yeah?"

"He kinda made it sound like you two had a thing at some point. Or that one of you wanted to have a thing at some point."

"You asking if I've ever hooked up with Angel?" The Slayer wasn't offended.

"I . . . Yeah. I guess I am."

"Solid 'no' on that one. I mean, I think there was a spot there, right when I first met him, that I would have done him in an instant, just to hurt Buffy." The combination of blood loss, fatigue, and her current favorite TV show was working on Faith like truth serum. "But then I woke up a little bit, opened my eyes a little more, and made a decision. Never sleep with something that isn't human. It's like my one hard and fast rule."

"I thought your one hard and fast rule was 'Always wear a condom,'" joked Dean.

"Well, yeah, that too," agreed the Slayer, settling herself more comfortably against his shoulder. "That, too."

* * *

This was not how it was supposed to be. The stars had lied to her again. Fickle things that they were, all shine and song and promises of something brighter, something better, something effulgent. They had promised her, promised her, promised her, and now she was left with the filthy taste of their failure in her mouth, swirling about her tongue and teeth and burning in the back of her throat.

It was to have been easy and simple. Her Daddy would return, the Slayer would be humbled, and she would have had her beautiful piece of pained starlight to take the place of that naughty, handsome William who had once been so bold and was now so corrupted by the lure of another Slayer.

_Slayers_. The word tasted almost as bad as the stars' false promises. She longed to snarl and curse those far-away twinkling lights, but even in her disappointment, she was forced to admit that not all was lost.

The stars had told the truth about one thing. She did have her Daddy back. And as she led him through the darkest passages, through the deep underground across the Town of Magic, some of his good humor could not fail to rub off on her.

Although she was fiercely disappointed, her Daddy was not. He laughed to himself, catching her around the waist and tugging her closer to him. This was just the beginning, he swore to her, the words deliciously cool against her skin, promising danger and wickedness ahead.

She could not help but giggle then in pure delight. As she did so, they crossed beneath a grate that was open to the stars ahead. One last whisper filtered down from the sky, worming its way deep into her mind. A final apology from the stars for misleading her so.

_There will be two of them_ , she told her Daddy, weaving her fingers through his.  _Two of them. What a fun time we shall have then. Run and catch, run and catch. But not even running can save the wicked girls this time_.

_Of course it would be those two._ Daddy's laugh was dark and rich as the starless night, and he kissed her fingertips.  _Few hours left until daylight, Dru. I think we should arrange a little welcome party for our old friends, don't you?_

Oh, yes. Yes, she did. The stars had apologized. This was a slight delay, no more, no less. A wild shout of mirth burbled up from inside her soul, and Drusilla laughed until she screamed.

 


	84. Long Ago and Far Away, pt 8

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Magic Town, London, England, 2:30 a.m.**

The lovely thing about Slayers, thought Angelus as he pushed past a deserted subway turnstile, Drusilla clinging to his left hand. Well, besides the way they tasted and how they could wriggle just right underneath you, was that millennia of 'one girl, in all the world' left its marks bone deep. Every Slayer, even the new dime a dozen ones, had the self-preservational instincts of a chicken crossing the street. They rarely thought about calling in backup, not if the bait was sufficiently attractive. And they could be slower than a glacier when it came to passing important information along the grapevine.

Which is why, when combined with Drusilla's visions, Angelus knew he was safe. Faith would be out of it for a while, and it would take time for the cheerleader to get her ass across the Atlantic. He highly doubted that Archaeus had left Nadira with more than two neurons to rub together, whatever Illyria might say. And Illyria herself had promised a hands-off policy. There were nearly a dozen Slayers working in London right now, the majority of whom had decent working relationships with that sap Angel. The likelihood of either Faith or Nadira warning them off already was practically non-existent.

For the next two and a half hours, until the sun poked her spiteful head above the horizon, London belonged to him. Less than fifteen minutes had passed since their flight from the tannery when Angelus made his first phone call. He knew – or, rather, Angel had known – the interpersonal dynamics between the Slayers with intimate clarity. It made it almost too easy.

The vampire called three Slayers, girls who were new to town and who hadn't got on well with Nadira or Faith. Girls who hero-worshipped Buffy and all that she represented, girls who were overeager to help out Buffy's one true love, girls who were too young and heedless to pay heed to the danger that lurked in the night when it came from an unexpected quarter. He arranged three meetings, in various abandoned subway stations around Magic Town. Three meetings, each one a half hour apart. Thirty minutes was more than enough time for what he had in mind.

In the end, it was embarrassingly simple. He waited on whatever deserted platform had been named, standing casually, looking as unthreatening as possible. When the Slayer arrived with perfect punctuality – as they always did, desperate to impress Angel – it marked the beginning of the end for them. Drusilla slipped out from the shadows and used the power of her eyes to dull the girl into placid, bovine complacency. Angelus stabbed the Slayer in the heart to save on time and screaming.

Lingering over these girls' deaths wasn't the point. They were a message, a mere means to an end, not the end itself. As the Slayer's eyes flickered shut for the final time, he sank his fangs into one of her carotid arteries while Drusilla did the same on the other side. Spike hadn't lied; Slayer blood was special. Sent a power rush right through a vampire, made the entire world seem to slow down and speed up at the exact same time.

Angelus rifled through the pockets on the first dead Slayer, emptying them of everything that could potentially be identifiable. He crushed her cell phone beneath his shoe and then threw the shattered remnants further on ahead in the subway tunnel. Even if the police did find it, they'd have a hell of a time putting anything together. The vampire stuck her wallet into his own pocket. He'd spend the cash and toss the rest into the river.

"Shall we poke her eyes out?" asked Drusilla, rising from her kneeling position beside the dead woman. Her tongue darted to the four corners of her mouth and licked away the traces of blood caught in the cracks on her lips.

"No, Dru," said Angelus easily as they disappeared once more into the night. Twenty minutes until their next appointment, and it would only take half that time to walk there. "We don't need to sign it this time. They'll know it's from us."

He waited until the second Slayer was drained and dead before broaching the one subject that was still on his mind. Archaeus. That miserable old demon had to have a plan – they always did. Angelus knew better than to assume Archaeus had just brought him back for the hell of it. Somewhere, there was a catch. Just like with that awful Beast and its annoying-as-Hell master.

Still, he needed to be informed, so he wrapped an arm around Drusilla and pulled her to his side to whisper, "So tell me, princess, what's the big plan?"

Dru writhed with excitement as she told him all that she knew. It didn't strike Angelus as anything out of the ordinary: open a Hell dimension, bring Archaeus back into the world, and watch and dance as he destroyed everything.

In its own way, this, too, was annoying as Hell. Angelus had no desire to destroy the world. Not just yet. He was starting his focus out small. He would destroy a handful of Slayers, and then, very carefully, destroy two very particular Slayers. In a few weeks, he'd be ready for something a little more organized. But at the moment, when he was not-breathing the night air for the first time in six years, there was nothing on the agenda but pure fun.

Drusilla hissed, her fingers contorting into claws and digging their way into his right shoulder. "We need to hurry." Her voice shook with strain.

"Why?" Angelus dropped the second Slayer's wallet down a storm drain. Good luck finding that.

She made a frantic gesture with both hands, flapping them against her face in panic. "They're going to search out the soul," she whimpered. "They never can leave well enough alone."

Angelus frowned and pulled her closer. "Then we're just going to have to keep them distracted," he said calmly, as if the prospect of a soul returning wasn't absolutely horrible. Brightening, he stomped Angel's mobile underfoot and kicked it into the gutter. "You got any idea where a person could find a beagle at this hour?"

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Piccadilly Circus, London, England, 7:15 a.m.**

It was the sound of the doorbell ringing that woke him. Someone was pressing relentlessly on the buzzer. Dean rubbed the worst of the sleep out of his eyes and carefully extricated himself from beneath the passed out Slayer. At some point during the second episode of Battlestar, she had fallen asleep, somehow managing to sprawl across the entire length of the couch. In the process, she'd elbowed Dean in the chin and kicked him in the knee.

His neck ached from being tilted against the back of the couch all night long, and Dean winced as he moved silently along the carpeted hallway to the front door. He slid back the deadbolt and twisted the door handle. The hunter took in the reinforcements in reverse-height order. Buffy, the petite blonde with stress lines at the corners of her eyes and a forced pleasant expression; Willow, the ginger who looked genuinely happy to see him; and Spike. Well, at least Dean knew where he stood with Spike.

"Morning," chirruped Willow.

"Morning," replied Dean automatically. He wondered what kind of uppers she was taking and how he could get his hands on some. "Spike."

"Dean."

"It's Buffy, right?"

The Slayer's pleasant expression became even more forced. "Yeah. Hi, Dean. Where's Faith?"

"Sleeping," said the hunter. "Come on in, but keep your voices down, okay?" He glanced a second time at Spike. "Unless, uh, you can't. We did some warding earlier."

Spike extended a hand, palm outstretched, and poked it carefully through the doorframe. "Must have been Angelus-specific," he concurred when his fingers met no resistance. "Looks like my invitation is still standing."

Cheerfully, the vampire waltzed his way inside the flat as if he owned the place. He hung his black duster on a hook near the front door and headed towards the living room. Buffy and Willow followed, leaving Dean to lock up. Alone once more, the hunter sighed. He had a feeling this was going to be a very long morning.

Dean found them all standing awkwardly in the living room, staring down at the unconscious Slayer. She had done even more sprawling in the hunter's absence, taking advantage of the extra room on the couch to get extra comfortable. Her tangled mass of brunette hair had gotten twisted beneath her neck, and it was painfully obvious what the trio of newcomers were staring at: the gauze pad taped to her neck, a faint hint of pink at its center where the blood had soaked through.

As the hunter froze in the doorway, Spike raised his eyebrows and turned to Buffy. "You didn't mention he'd been biting people," he said without heat. "That superiority complex of his is gonna be even worse than usual."

Buffy frowned. "I didn't know," she replied curtly. "Faith didn't tell me."

"Right." The blond vampire retrieved a throw pillow from the other couch and chunked it at Faith's stomach. "Wakey wakey, Slayerhead," he crowed.

Faith went from a convincing sleep of the living dead to wide awake and wary in less than half a second. She caught the pillow before it smacked into her and opened her eyes to glare humorlessly at the people invading her living room. "Spike."

"Faith. You wouldn't happen to have a pack of cigarettes on hand? It's practically my bedtime over here."

"No smokes, sorry." Although Faith was addressing the vampire, Buffy was the one she was watching. "Few pints of blood in the fridge, though. I think it's pig? Not much else, unfortunately."

"That'll work."

The brunette Slayer was not the only one who had been watching Buffy. Willow also had her eyes on her best friend. While she couldn't read Buffy's thoughts, she could always tell when the other woman was doing some heavy thinking, and now, she was thinking so hard it was nearly written on her face in cuneiform. Willow decided to step in before either Slayer said something awkward.

"I've got most of the ingredients for the Ritual of Restoration," she announced brightly, enunciating the capitals. "I'm just missing one or two things – might have to run out to a few occult shops in an hour or two when everything opens. But I have the weasel bones and the phalanx of an Eastern Orthodox saint and the majority of the herbs."

"What do you need?" asked Faith, relieved at the reprieve.

"New candles. Preferably white."

"Will tea light ones work? There's a couple of unopened packages in Giles' study."

The witch smiled and checked something off on her mental list. "Perfect! And I'll need to find a bit more fennel, which shouldn't be too hard . . ."

"There's some in the cabinet here!" called Spike from the kitchen. He swaggered back into the living room, carrying the largest mug Faith owned in one hand and a small plastic container of fennel in the other. "Does the spice rack variety work?"

Willow bit her lower lip and considered. "We can try it," she said hesitantly. "But either way, I'm still going to have to go shopping. There wasn't time to find an Orb of Thesulah before. Which may be the sticky bit. I'm hoping somewhere in town has them in stock. They've got to, right?" she asked of no one in particular. "I mean, it's London."

"I've got one," said Faith. She rose to her feet and began folding her comforter to take back to her room. Nap time was over. There was work to do.

"You – " began Buffy in tones of great surprise.

She didn't let her finish. "Three, actually," amended the brunette. Her eyes flicked about the room, searching for Dean, only to find that he was standing behind the couch, already at her back. "I, uh, wanted to be prepared."

"In case of . . . Oh." Willow did not require further explanation. "Three in case Angel found out where one of them was, and Angelus destroyed it?"

"Pretty much."

"Where did you hide them?" wondered the witch with interest.

The Slayer swallowed. "Uh, one's under the floorboards in the back left corner of my closet, in a shoebox marked 'GED papers.' And then there's one in the freezer – there's a big almost-quart-sized empty sour cream container, where I put all the bacon grease until it's solid enough to go into the trash can. Scrape the grease out, and the Orb's at the bottom of the container, safely wrapped up in a Ziplock."

"And the last one?" asked Buffy weakly.

Faith coughed. "Uh, yeah. That one's in my bathroom cabinet, in a box of tampons."

"Tampons?" echoed Spike. "A box of bloody tampons?"

"Well, technically it's a box of unopened tampons, so they're not bloody, per se . . ."

"That's bloody brilliant, that is!" The vampire tossed back half his mug of blood in one go and settled himself on the couch near Faith, laughing to himself. "Bacon grease and tampons," he chuckled. "Bloody brilliant."

Shrugging, Faith glanced at Willow. "So, floorboards, bacon, tampons – you got a preference?"

"I'll take the floorboard one, if that's alright," said Willow, an amused gleam in her eyes. "I wouldn't want to disturb the others."

"Got it." Faith squashed the comforter between her elbow and her hip. She might as well return it to her room, since she was heading that direction anyway. "Dean, you want to grab the tea lights out of Giles' desk? They're in the second drawer down on the right side, I think."

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

When Faith returned from prying up the bottom of her closet, a long, thin cardboard box under her arm, Willow had already set to in the kitchen. The witch had set her giant leather purse on the countertop and was unpacking velvet drawstring bag after velvet drawstring back. She spread them out on the kitchen table, muttering to herself as she did so. "Chalk, bones, holy relic, sage, sandalwood."

"One Orb of Thesulah, as requested."

"Thanks. Just set it down next to the tea lights."

"No problem. Let me know if you need anything else?"

"Will do."

Leaving Willow to her work, Faith rejoined the others in the living room. Buffy and Spike were sitting on one couch, interrogating Dean about the details of last night. Slowly, the brunette Slayer sank down onto the other couch next to Dean. This was the part she dreaded, when all her decisions got raked over the fire and they had to figure out where to go from here.

"Any news on Nadira?"

Faith pushed herself up from the couch automatically. "I'll go call her. Right now."

"You haven't yet?" said Buffy, incredulous.

Ah. Here it was. The moment when she started feeling about six inches tall. Maybe this meant they could go ahead and get it over with. "Haven't really had the chance." Faith tapped one finger against the bandage on her neck. In case Buffy couldn't take a visual hint, she went on to add, "You know, must have been the blood loss or something. But I will as soon as we finish this little conversation."

Eager to change the subject before the tension could rise further, Dean interjected, "Faith, I've been thinking. Why don't I call Cass, get him in on this? He might be helpful, in dealing with Illyria. Or even just with Angelus and Drusilla."

Buffy frowned. "Who's Cass?"

"Castiel. He's an angel of the Lord and the angel of Thursdays," the brunette supplied quickly.

Curious, Spike set his mug down on the coffee table and leaned forward. "Which lord?"

"The Lord," corrected Dean. "As in God, Elohim, Adonai, the Grand Poobah of Everything." He wondered if this was how Bobby felt every time he had to explain a new bit of lore. It was kind of aggravating.

The blonde Slayer's eyebrows shot up into her hairline. "God as in God? Not just as in one of the Powers that Be, but as in The Power that Is and Was and Always Will Be, from Forever to Forever?"

"Yep. That about sums it up."

"And this Castiel, what does he do? I mean, besides presumably ensuring that Thursday follows Wednesday?"

"Mostly, he just kinda saves Dean's ass. But don't remind him of that, or he gets a little short-tempered. Isn't that right, Dean?"

If looks could kill, Faith would have been dangling from the ceiling by her ankles while two executioners debating the best weapons for a beheading. "That's an oversimplification," Dean said gruffly. "A hell of an oversimplification."

"But he'll come when you call," pressed Faith.

"Maybe. Okay, usually."

Buffy sank back into the welcoming leather of the couch. "An angel to deal with Angel?" She said the words as if trying them out. Then, shaking her head, she concluded, "I don't think so. We can handle this on our own. Nothing good ever comes of getting undue attention from the Powers the Be. Unless . . . Tell me more about Illyria." The blonde massaged at her temples. "It's getting hard to keep all these players straight."

"Tell me about it," grumbled Faith. The Slayers' eyes met in a brief moment of silent commiseration.

"You said Fred's still down in the Bluebird?" Spike waited for Dean's confirming nod, and then he continued to think out loud, "Then, all we have to do is figure out whatever it was made her switch from Fred to Blue. Once we know what that is, we can re-do it, or do it backwards, and just switch her back."

"I doubt it'll be that easy. But I'll ask Nadira, see if she knows what happened. Anything else you want to talk about before we – " Faith was cut off by her cell phone ringing in her pocket. Gingerly, she raised it to her ear, knowing instinctively that it was going to be bad news. It had been that kind of week. She listened for a short moment and hung up with a quiet, "Thanks, Inspector."

Dean shot to his feet. "Brandt?" He already knew the answer.

"Yeah." The Slayer sighed. She felt about a thousand years old, like her skin had been stretched far too tight and her bones replaced with lead. It was a feeling that promised to linger. "That was Brandt. He's got more bodies for us."

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Hyde Park, London, England, 7:45 a.m.**

She had been wandering for hours, moving from shadow to shadow and trying to avoid the obnoxious hubbub of people scrambling in their Wednesday rush to get to work on time. The humans were a horde of buzzing insects, nothing more. But even insects could sting.

Worse yet, this body refused to obey her adamant commands to not be human, and Illyria's stomach had first grumbled, then complained, and finally roared at her until she snuck into a Pret a Manger in the guise of Winifred Burkle and purchased enough pastries to send a small elephant into a hyperglycemic coma. She had forgotten that, too, how the insolence of this form required that she replace all the energy she used with carbohydrates. Illyria didn't even enjoy the taste.

After a time, she allowed the Burkle's deeply-ingrained habits to take over her feet and lead her to Hyde Park. Illyria found an empty bench beside a silty pond and an ill-favored grouping of ducks.

A paddling, supplied the Burkle resentfully as she continued her ceaseless struggle against the bars of her mental prison. They're called a paddling of ducks.

How interesting, thought back Illyria coolly. Winifred's struggles did not frighten her in the slightest. She had her in a cage of mental adamant; it would be impossible for the Burkle to free herself.

Listening to the ugly birds quacking at one another, Illyria wondered as she had often wondered before if any of this was worth it. She was bored and irritated and so tired of the mortals, but she was even more bored and irritated and tired of Archaeus and other demons of his ilk. They had no imagination. It was all blood and fire and the dark abyss.

Well, far be it from her to argue against blood and fire and the dark abyss. Even at her most cynical, Illyria had to admit that those things possessed their powerful attractions. Still, it wasn't very creative, was it? Everyone always wanted to destroy the world in the exact same way. There was no ingenuity or originality. After millennia upon millennia of existing, she was feeling the full weight of ennui.

She watched the poorly designed waterfowl and let her mind drift through the indignities of the past few weeks under the control of the Burkle. A few of the more adventurous ducks decided to abandon their pool and waddled across the dewy grass to come harass her. They smelled the remains of her breakfast on the paper bag crumpled on the bench next to her and wanted their share.

Illyria was just pondering the best way to incinerate a duck when one of the Burkle's memories caught her attention. One of the oldest of Old Ones was up and about, had clawed his way to freedom out of the cage he had been entrapped in by the Power that Was and Is and Always Will Be, from Forever to Forever. After eons of silence, Lucifer once again walked the earth.

The Burkle's phone started ringing. She glanced at the caller ID. It was that policeman. Brandt. With a careless shrug, Illyria hurled the phone into the duck pond. It landed with a light splash and sank from view. Rising, the ancient demon kicked aimlessly at the birds milling at her feet. Time to go meet an old acquaintance.

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Magic Town, London, England, 9:15 a.m.**

Three crime scenes, Brandt had said. And so they split up, leaving Willow and Spike back at the flat. Willow so that she could finish the preparations to ensoul Angel as quickly as possible, and Spike because no one wanted to see him go up like a Guy Fawkes bonfire in the pale London sunlight.

Dean had agree with the arrangement at first, but now, looking down at the murdered woman in front of him, he was beginning to have second, third, and fourth thoughts. The hunter did not even dare look to his left, at the other present that Angelus and Drusilla had left for the Slayers. He was certain that it had been those two vampires and not some other lucky fang. No one else would have had the knowledge to do this.

Borrowing a phone off the uniformed policeman guarding the crime scene, he quickly dialed a familiar number.

"Hello?" She sounded as miserable and angry as he felt.

"Hey. It's me. Uh, you want to get over here. Soon as you can."

"Let me guess – it's bad?"

"Well, it's definitely not good. I think I've met the deceased before."

Faith groaned. "I'll be there in twenty. Just gotta get the full debrief from Brandt. This one's a Slayer, all right. Buffy sent me a picture of her vic – also a Slayer. I really screwed the pooch on this one."

The hunter winced. "Yeah. I'll hold down the fort. Just, like I said, you might want to hurry."

* * *

She was getting better with her time estimates. It was twenty-one minutes on the dot when a series of footsteps hurtled down the concrete stairway to the abandoned subway platform. Inspector Brandt at her heels, Faith nodded to the uniformed officer on duty and jogged the last few steps to Dean and the crime scene tape.

"What did you want to show me?" she began, but then her voice fell flat as Faith took in the bloodied and bloodless corpse of Gianna, a nineteen-year-old who had come over from Tuscany a month before. "Sh-t," growled the Slayer under her breath.

"There's something else." Dean wouldn't meet her eyes.

"What?"

The hunter gestured silently to another shadow just beyond Gianna, closer to the edge of the platform. She stepped carefully around the dead Slayer and then froze. Angelus had left her a present.

Faith surveyed Angelus's fourth murder victim of the night, staring down at the mangled body of a small dog. Alive, it might have been a terrier, or possibly a beagle, but something – no, someone – had ripped it apart, and the white fur was covered in flecks of blood and entrails. There was no questioning who the intended recipient had been. Beside the dog, a rust-colored message had been scrawled in large capital letters:

_Kitten,_  
_Say hi to Buffy for me.  
_ _\- a Buddy_

Time halted. Everything flashed ice cold and burning hot in the same moment. The Slayer spun on her heel. Her gaze collided with Dean's. The sympathy in those green eyes pierced her like a knife. Faith kept her eyes locked on the hunter's, desperately looking for something that could make this go away.

After a moment, the world stabilized itself, and time started moving. Faith spared one final glance for the dead dog on the concrete, and then she sprinted back the way she had come to empty the contents of her stomach into a trash can.

"Okay," she said when the retching finally passed. Wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her coat, Faith forced herself to walk casually back down to Dean and the policemen. "What else did you find?"

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Picadilly Circus, London, England, 11:00 a.m.**

Dean and Faith slipped in through the front door of the flat just in time to hear Willow's excited, "I've got it!" from the kitchen. Stopping in the living room for a second, Faith passed along Angelus's message to Buffy. She left out the part about why the dog had been significant. "He knows you're in town," she said flatly.

"Let me guess – Drusilla had a vision or something?" Buffy followed them into the kitchen.

"Probably. Awfully inconvenient, those visions of Dru's." The brunette raised an eyebrow at the state of her kitchen table.

Willow had used the time while everyone was away to her advantage. She had covered nearly the entire table with a chalk circle and set four white tea light candles in each of the cardinal directions. Bit of herbs were spread out at various locations throughout the circle, and a globe of clear crystal, the Orb of Thesulah, sat in pride of place in the center, cradled in a bowl covered in crimson velvet.

"You find your fennel?" inquired Faith.

"Yep," smiled Willow. "We're all ready to go. I'll just need your Tall, Dark, and Snarky to be my spell sous chef."

"Me?" The hunter wasn't convinced that he had heard her properly. "Why me?"

"Because you're neither vampire nor Slayer, and thus less likely to have an energy that monkeys about with the incantation," the witch informed him briskly.

This probably wasn't the time to let her in on the whole angel sword and vessel thing. Instead, Dean approached the kitchen table. "What do you need me to do?"

Her smile widening, Willow passed him a sheet of paper on which she had written a single line of Latin. "This is the beginning of the spell. I need you to read it aloud as I cast the sacred stones into the circle," she jiggled a handful of pebbles as if they were a pair of dice. "And then I'll read the rest of the incantation. The orb will glow as the soul is called back from the ether, and then it will go dark again as the soul returns to Angel."

"You make it sound so easy," muttered the hunter. He was uncomfortable being this close to magic, at least when it was being worked by an actual witch, and not another hunter just trying to get the job done.

Willow shrugged. "It's my third time performing the ritual. Well, fourth, really, if you count the time it didn't work."

Dean glanced at her in mild panic. "It didn't work?"

The witch brushed away his concerns airily. "Oh, that was years ago. I've done it twice since then. It'll definitely work this time. And I've made a few improvements to the incantation. Did you know that it's in Latin and Romanian and English? A little unusual, as spells go, having the words in three languages. But I think it adds a little punch. Okay." She lit the candles and lifted the hand containing the pebbles. "Whenever you're ready."

Clearing his throat, the hunter began, "Quod perdition est, invenietur."

As he said the final syllable, Willow gently released the pebbles, scattering them across the circle. She picked up the incantation, her voice becoming deeper and more resonant. Something dark flashed in her eyes.

"Nici mort, nici al fiinţei,  
te invoc spirit al trecerii.  
Gods, bind him, cast his heart from the evil realm.  
Let him know the pain of humanity, gods.  
Reach your wizened hands to me. Give me the sword...  
Te implor, Doamne; nu ignoră aceasta rugăminte.  
Lăsa orbită să fie vasul care-i vă transportă sufletul la el.  
Este scris, aceasta putere este dreptul poporul meu de a conduce.  
Redă trupului ce separe omul de animal.  
Aşa să fie cu ajutorul acestui magic glob de cristal.  
Aşa să fie! Aşa să fie!  
Acum! Acum!"

With the final 'acum,' the orb began to change colors as promised. It glowed, first a white so glaringly bright that it hurt the eyes, but then the white was replaced by dark, angry crimson red. The air hummed.

"Will," said Buffy worriedly. "Will, what's –"

The orb shattered into a thousand pieces of burning hot glass. Dean jumped backwards, and the other three were far enough away already to be out of the range of fire, but the witch was not so lucky. Glass raked across her face, leaving a deep laceration that ran from her left forehead to the right side of her chin. Willow whimpered softly as blood dripped into her eyes. This had not been part of the plan.

Faith was the first to recover. She jerked open one of the drawers beside the sink and pulled out a clean towel. Rushing, the Slayer ran the towel beneath warm water in the sink and started clearing the blood away from Willow's face. "We're gonna need to get you to the A&E," she said calmly, as if all their hopes hadn't just exploded. "That cut needs stitches. And trust me, you don't want someone without a medical degree doing this one."

Willow whimpered again. "I don't know what happened," she mumbled, looking blankly at her sacred circle. "It was all going so well. The incantation was working. I could feel it. We had the soul. But then something – something else was in that orb. It wasn't Angel, whatever it was." She braved a smile. "At least we've still got two more orbs?"

"That's the spirit, pet." Spike patted her on the shoulder. "We'll figure out what went wrong, make it work next time."

"Next time?" Her eyes still wide with the horror of what had just almost happened, Buffy rounded on Faith. "What else aren't you telling us?" she demanded hotly. "What else did you forget to do?"

"Forget, B?"

"Yeah. Just like you forgot to call Nadira. You forgot to call the other Slayers. You didn't let people know about Angelus, and now those people are dead. And guess what? It's your fault." The venom in the blonde Slayer's voice was enough to make even Spike wince. "They're dead, Faith. Because you didn't do your job."

The color drained away from the brunette's face. She blinked, unconsciously reaching around her stomach with one arm to hug herself. The kitchen went silent as everyone waited for the inevitable explosion. But then Faith straightened. "Come on, Will," she said, her voice utterly devoid of emotion. "I'll take you to the A&E. Let's get that lac stitched up."

Dean waited for the thud of the front door closing before he turned to Buffy, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Why do you always do that?" he asked, carefully keeping his tone casual. Losing his temper right now wouldn't do anyone a lick of good.

"Do what?"

"Blame Faith. I mean, yeah, we should have called those girls. Or Nadira should have called those girls. But she was beyond out of it due to blood loss, and she's been super prepared with everything thing else - that orb thing, calling you in, Angelus-proofing this place. And you definitely can't say she intended for any of this to happen. So why do you blame her?" the hunter rephrased his question, still retaining a tight rein on his anger.

Spike stared pointedly at the ceiling. No way in the thirteen Hells was he getting involved in this conversation.

Buffy froze, her mouth half-open to deliver some scathing retort, and thought instead. There was something about the man in front of her that suggested he wasn't going to accept less than an honest answer. "I don't know," she said at last after a long pause. "Habit, I guess."

"Habit," Dean echoed. He stared at her in disbelief and mild disgust. "Habit?" he said a second time. Lowering his voice, he continued, "Do you have any idea what it does to her when you do that? Every time when she isn't perfect enough for you and you rip her a new one? She tears herself into shreds. And you do it out of habit?"

Buffy began to say something, but Dean steam-rolled right on past her. "Save it," he said, holding one hand up. "I already know what you're gonna say. It's all about betrayal and boyfriend stealing and body switching and how bad people who commit murder can't be trusted."

The hunter snorted. "G-d, Summers. That was, what, eight or nine years ago now? Faith's not even the same person she was then. She's apologized and gone to jail and nearly killed herself trying to save your sorry ass, or your boyfriend's sorry ass, or whatever sorry piece of ass was important to you at the time. And you're still holding on to some teenage grudge? 'She was bad and she hurt my feelings?' Grow up!"

He leaned in closer. "I got a little brother. Smart kid, except he's awful dumb sometimes. He's done some sh-tty, bull-headed stuff in the past, not gonna lie about that, and I'm not always sure if I can trust him further than I can throw him, but he's  _my_  idiot brother. And if he did a tenth of the apologizing that Faith has done, I'd forgive him in an instant. Because that's what you do, when someone's family. Hell, that's what you do when someone's friends."

"Habit," he repeated, shaking his head in disgust. "Gotta be the sh-ttiest reason in the universe." Dean stared at Buffy for a fraction of a moment longer, then turned on his heel. "Spike, I'm going to the hospital," he said brusquely. "Call you if we get any news."

A few seconds later, the front door to the flat slammed as the hunter took out some of his frustration on the innocent wood. Spike let out a low whistle and started cleaning up the shards of the former Orb of Thesulah.

After a long moment's silence, Buffy asked quietly, "Do you think he's right?"

Spike hesitated, but the question deserved an answer. "I try not to get in between you and Faith. A man can't do that and come out with his skin still on. But I will say this - I think you might be owing a couple of people an apology."

"Yeah," said Buffy dejectedly as she joined in on the clean-up effort. "That's what I was afraid of."


	85. Long Ago and Far Away, pt 9

 

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Piccadilly Circus, London, England, 11:45 a.m.**

"Hey."

Both the Slayer and the witch glanced up at his approach. Still cradling a towel to her forehead, Willow blinked in surprise. "Miss us already?" she hazarded, looking from the tense lines on the hunter's face to the angry set of Faith's jaw and back again.

"Something like that. You call a cab?" Dean turned to Faith.

"Yeah. ETA in a couple of minutes. I've been trying to get a hold of Nadira," she said in an undertone, gripping her cell phone so tightly that the plastic case creaked. "She won't pick up. Sent a couple of texts out to a few of the other girls in town – Eliza, Naomi, Tracy – but no one's heard from her. Tracy and Eliza even swung by her place; it's still deserted."

"I could try a locating spell," volunteered Willow.

Faith shook her head. "Thanks for the offer, but that scrape of yours takes precedence to spell work. And we're going to need you in top condition to figure out what happened back there with the Orb."

"I think I know what went wrong," Willow mused from behind her towel. "It was working – working perfectly, even. But then at the last minute, something else was there. I don't know if it came in along with the soul, or if it switched places at the very end, but there was something malignant and strong in that Orb. I wasn't expecting it, and it wrenched control away. I just need to figure out what it was."

Slayer and hunter exchanged significant glances. What could go wrong would go wrong. It was one of the unwritten rules of the job. As Faith was mulling this over in her head, a black taxi pulled up alongside the curb in front of them. They slid one by one into the back seat, Faith and Dean purposefully orchestrating it so that Willow was in the middle. "Great Ormond Street Hospital, please," said Faith to the driver, and the entire cab lapsed into silence.

Throughout the twelve minute ride, the Slayer passed her cell phone from her left hand to her right and back, over and over and over again, until Dean reached across Willow's lap and confiscated the heavy chunk of gray plastic.

"A watched phone never rings," he half-joked, sliding the mobile into his jacket pocket.

"Eat me, Dean," Faith shot back without much heat.

"So, uh, how long have you two known each other, again?" wondered Willow as the hunter grimaced at Faith and the Slayer stuck her tongue out in return.

"I dunno. Not exactly keeping track," grumbled the brunette.

"Six years," replied Dean. He didn't even really have to think about it. "Six years I've been dealing with this." He made a half-hearted gesture in the Slayer's general direction.

They made eye contact over the top of Willow's head, and Faith snorted. "Please. You know I'm your favorite. Now gimme my phone."

"Fine." The hunter dropped the cell phone into her outstretched hands. "Just don't tell Sam."

Her features lighting up in a brief smirk of triumph, Faith flipped the phone open and resumed scrolling through the contacts. "Dammit, Nadira. Where  _are_  you?"

Willow shifted her weight on the hump and readjusted the dish towel pressed against her forehead. The witch tried to focus on the problem of Angel's soul and let the sarcastic familiarity of the others wash over her. But think as she might, she kept getting the uncomfortable feeling that she was missing something. And with their current luck, Willow knew that whatever that missing something was, it was most likely going to end up being very important.

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Great Ormond Street Hospital, London, England, 12:30 p.m.**

Half a dozen plans were whirring through her head, but Faith kept a lid on her ideas until a nurse called for 'Willow Rosenberg.' She watched the redhead disappear through the swinging double doors leading to the individual patient cubicles of the A&E and then pivoted in her plastic chair. Her right ankle was crossed over her left knee, and as she turned, her other knee rammed into Dean's thigh. It was an effective nonverbal way of getting his attention. The hunter glanced up from the tabloid he had been skimming and lifted his eyebrows.

"I've been thinking . . . " she prefaced her argument.

"'Bout time one of us was," said Dean easily. "Nadira text you back?"

The Slayer frowned. "No," she admitted, grinding her teeth a little. "Eliza's hit up almost everyone Nadira might trust, but no one's heard anything. I'm starting to worry. Illyria said she left that tannery under her own power, but she didn't say anything else about her condition. She could be holed up in a bolt hole, too hurt to get in touch. Or maybe she's lying in a ditch somewhere." Faith lowered her voice as intensity crept into it. "I need to find her, Dean. She might be the only one who knows how exactly Angel lost his soul and what happened to Fred. And I'm nearly out of ideas. Unless . . ."

He knew his cues. "Yeah?" he prompted.

"When you first crashed at my place, you told me that Cass did something to you and Sam, warded you somehow so that the other angels couldn't track you down. Does that . . . Does that mean that angels can find anybody? If they're not warded, the angels can find them?"

"Sounds logical to me."

"Right." Faith straightened up from her chair and reached down for his hand. "Come on."

Dean took the hand, his callused palm brushing against hers, and rose to his feet. "Where're we going?" he asked as the Slayer dragged him across the waiting room and through an automatic door towards the hospital atrium.

"Chapel. We're gonna summon an angel."

"I don't have to be in a church to pray to Cass. You know that, right?"

"Oh, I know," Faith assured him. "I'm just hoping we can get extra points for ambience."

* * *

Castiel looked quizzically from the hunter to the Slayer and back again. "I am not sure I understand," he said carefully, his cold blue eyes puzzled. "Why is it that you wish me to find this Slayer Nadira?"

Groaning, Faith slunk down even further into her seat. She fought the urge to slam her forehead into the sleek wooden back of the pew in front of her. This was their third time going through this, and she couldn't quite decide if the angel was being purposefully obtuse or if he was just pathologically slow on the uptake. "Dean –"

The hunter laid a hand on her shoulder. "Because we've got some pretty big demon problems going on here, Cass, and Nadira may know how to take care of it."

"Demons?" Castiel closed his eyes and listened to something no one else could hear. "There are no reports of Lucifer's forces engaging in any unusual activities in London at present."

 _Angel radio?_  mouthed Faith to Dean. He nodded.

"These, uh, well, I'm not sure if these demons are in the Lucifer fan club or not. They're kinda different than the usual sulfur lowlifes. But they're still pretty powerful, and, uh, not exactly friendly."

"So you would have me abandon my mission?" The angel withdrew a horned pendant on a leather cord from his trench coat pocket and examined it in the palm of his hand. Faith blinked. She had known Castiel was in possession of Dean's necklace, but actually seeing him hold it jarred. "You believe the need to find this Nadira to be more urgent than finding our Father?"

"These demons, they're gonna kill a lot of innocent people, if we don't stop them." Dean almost winced under the icy weight of Castiel's regard. As reasons went, it wasn't the best one he had ever come up with, but it was true.

Castiel pondered this response for a moment and then pressed, "And what will you do while I find your missing Slayer?"

"Same thing we always do," said Faith confidently. "Do our best to track down the sons of bitches and put them out of commission. We're not asking you to be a fairy godmother, to wave your magic wand and make all this go away. We're just asking for a little help, that's all."

The angel's gaze narrowed. "I will help," he agreed. "But there is one thing, Dean . . ."

"There always is." The hunter ran a hand over his face. "What do you need, Cass?"

"Your friend – Faith," Castiel added as the Slayer scowled at him. "Zachariah can use her to find you. You need to be careful."

"I'm not leaving," said Dean flatly.

"That was not my intended suggestion." The angel extended his hand, palm facing outward towards Faith. He tilted his head to the side and stared at her intently.

Breathing deeply through her nose, Faith wrapped her arms tight around herself and winced. "Nngh." When the burning pain faded away to a throbbing ache, she unclenched her teeth. "What the hell was that?" she snapped in conjunction with Dean's barked, "Did you just –"

"Enochian sigil," explained Castiel. "Carved into your ribs. Now you are hidden from Zachariah." He vanished with a rustle of feathers.

The Slayer pushed herself up from her seat on the wooden bench and slowly sidled her way along the pew. "He's kind of a douche," she muttered. "I know," she amended before Dean could get a word in. "I know. You've already told me that a gazillion times. We'd better get back. Before Willow misses us and starts panicking."

* * *

Barely had they stepped back through the double doors into the A&E when Willow came trudging out, her makeshift dinner towel bandage now replaced with something much more professional. You could tell that a real M.D. had done it by the straight edges on the bandage tape, Faith snarked to herself, a little woozy with exhaustion.

Now that her forehead was no longer dripping blood, Willow's normally high spirits were peppy as ever. She smiled the entire cab ride back to the flat, mumbling to herself about how perhaps it was now late enough in the morning to call Giles.

As soon as she cleared the front door, the witch hurried back to the kitchen. In her absence, Spike and Buffy had done a remarkable job of cleaning up. No traces remained of the earlier explosion. Willow withdrew her laptop from her backpack and opened it on the kitchen table. "What's the Wifi, Faith?" she called out, her cheerful voice echoing through the apartment.

"Here." The Slayer dug a paper napkin out of one of the cabinet drawers and scribbled down a string of numbers. She surveyed the spotless countertops warily. "You see Buffy or Spike on your way in?"

Dean wandered out of the kitchen to investigate, wandering back in a minute or two later. "Buffy's in the hall bathroom, I think. Somebody is, anyway. Spike's in the study. He said something about Angel having volumes on the order of Aurelius?"

"The vampire bloodline that Archaeus started," supplied Willow. Her fingers darted over the keyboard as she typed in the Wifi information and connected to the Internet. "Spike's part of it, through Drusilla. I wonder . . ." Her voice trailed away.

"What?" prompted Faith.

A furrow arced across the witch's forehead. "I wonder what that means," she said slowly. "Back in California, it didn't seem like Archaeus had any special effect on Spike and Angel, despite the fact that he created the Master. I guess I'm just wondering if that's going to change."

"Way to go borrowing trouble, Red." The Slayer smiled ruefully, drawing the sting out of her words. "If you're on the research, then I think I'm going to crash for an hour or two. While the sun's still up and before Angelus and Dru come out to play."

Willow shivered. "I wish you wouldn't use that word."

"Which word? Play?"

"Yeah." The redhead's eyes fell back to her laptop screen. She hunched her shoulders and shivered again. "It's kinda creepy."

"I know." Faith exhaled heavily. "Unfortunately, it's kind of appropriate." Folding her arms across her still-aching ribs, she crossed the kitchen linoleum and then paused a few inches away from Dean. "Books or sleep?"

A pensive look on his face, the hunter followed her down the hallway to her bedroom. Faith closed the door behind them and slid the lock before she plopped on the far side of the bed and began unlacing her Doc Martens. While Dean watched from the doorway, she tossed the boots into the corner, where they thudded gently against the wall and fell down to the carpet. The Slayer set her cell phone on the nightstand and crawled beneath the navy duvet.

"Hit the light?" she said from behind her closed eyelids.

The light switch made a quiet click as it was flicked off, and then the mattress dipped on the other side. Dean removed his shoes in silence and then stretched out on top of the covers. "Interesting morning," he observed, plumping the pillow into a satisfactory shape.

"You're gonna get cold when the central air kicks on," was the only reply.

"Might be worth it to clear up some things," replied Dean.

Opening her eyes, the Slayer pushed herself halfway up on her elbows. She rolled onto her right side and stared at him suspiciously. "Like what?" Her tone could have corroded stainless steel.

Unabashed, Dean met her gaze. "Some things about you and me, for starters." When he got nothing in response, only an intensification of the brown-eyed glare currently boring holes in his face, the hunter added, "We got a job to do."

"What the hell, Winchester? How does this –" Faith indicated the foot and a half of empty queen-sized bed in between the two of them – "keep us from doing our job? It's a nap, not an orgy. It's not even like half of an orgy. We both get under the covers, I stay on my side, you stay on yours. Everybody sleeps, nobody freezes, and nobody has any extracurricular fun. We've done this like a thousand times."

"I didn't say it was us that needed things cleared up," clarified the hunter.

"Unbelievable," Faith groaned, flipping over onto her stomach. She buried her face in her pillow. "Un-freaking-believable." The Slayer lifted her head long enough to ask, "This is about Buffy, isn't it? Isn't it?"

"We got a job to do," Dean repeated. "And I don't want her to give you a hard time."

"News flash, Dean. B doesn't need an excuse to give me a hard time. I breathe wrong, and that's reason enough."

"Which is why I don't want to give her anything extra to go on."

Faith looked up one last time and glared at him. "When we finish this thing, you and I are having a little talk about unsolicited chivalry. I do not need you to protect me from Buffy. I can handle her."

"I know you can," he said. "But that doesn't mean I'm not going to have your back."

"Un-freaking-believable. You just . . . You . . . You know what? Never mind." She grabbed the edge of the duvet and jerked it roughly up to her chin. "I'm going to sleep."

Dean let thirty seconds pass, knowing that would be enough time for Faith to burn through the first layer of her crappy mood. "You really think Angelus wants to play?" he asked, more seriously.

"No thinking to it," grumbled the Slayer, her voice muffled by the pillow. "That dead dog, back there in the tube station? That was pretty much a birthday party invitation."

The hunter closed his eyes and slowly began to consciously relax the overly tight muscles in his body, beginning with his shoulders and working down from there. "That's what I thought."

A flung-out wrist whacked him in the chest. Blinking, Dean turned his head and saw the brunette watching him.

"It's gonna be okay," Faith promised as she tucked her arm back into the cozy confines of the duvet. Some of the edge had smoothed out of her voice, replaced by a haze of exhaustion and the beginnings of slumber. "Angelus wants to play, he can play with me. I'm not gonna let him hurt you."

"Faith –"

"I'm not," she repeated, her consonants starting to slur together. The Slayer's eyelids drifted shut. "I'm not."

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Southwark Cathedral, London, England, 2:42 p.m.**

Humans. So pitifully convinced of their need for ritual. Bell, book, and candle. When in the end, all you really needed was will. Enough desire, enough conviction, and the world bent itself to your liking. At least, it did when you were nearly as old as the universe itself.

Once more wearing the form of the Burkle, Illyria followed her instincts to a mostly empty cathedral and found her way to an empty pew. She had never been one for absolutes; good and evil were relative concepts, not two diametrically opposed forces at either end of the universe. But she could still appreciate the irony of what she was about to do.

In the end, what would have taken a mortal four candles, half a pound of chalk, and a cup of blood took her a single word, albeit one imbued with the power and malice of millennia. " _Lucifer_."

He appeared on the bench next to her, as she had known he would. The Old One glanced to her left, taking in the tall man with the sandy blond hair, rumpled clothing, and pale eyes. Unimpressed, she sniffed. Some people did not grow more handsome with time.

Despite the mortal costume, he recognized her instantly. "Illyria."

"Welcome back to the world. I see you have been freed from the cage at last."

"And you. Congratulations on climbing out of the Deeper Well," observed Lucifer. "Nice vessel. Never pegged you for the pale, nerdy type, but it looks good on you."

Illyria elevated a single eyebrow. "Whereas yours is corrupted," she remarked. The ancient demon could almost feel the heat emanating from Lucifer's vessel. It was too weak to contain the archangel. Already, it was burning itself to ashes from the inside out. "Not for nothing were you called the Son of the Morning. That body crumbles away as we speak."

The Son of the Morning scratched his nose and then dug a finger into the inside of his ear. It came away bloody. "What can you do?" he asked rhetorically, scooting closer to her. Illyria resisted the urge to move further along the bench. Lucifer laid a large, meaty hand over hers. "Don't worry; this is temporary. I just needed somewhere to land while I got my feet back under me, so to speak. And then it's off to my true vessel." He smiled, and the temperature in the cathedral dropped several degrees.

"Sam Winchester," announced Illyria, drawing from the Burkle's memories of conversations with the angry male human.

Lucifer eyed her curiously. "You are well-informed," he said, his smile widening. "Who have you been talking to, Illyria?"

She did not deign to answer his question. "The book says that you plan to destroy the world." There was no need to specify which book.

"Want in?" offered the archangel. "I seem to recall you enjoying quite a bit of destruction yourself."

"Archaeus is also loose. Fighting his way to be loose, rather," Illyria corrected herself. "He likewise wishes to destroy the world." She leaned in closer to Lucifer and forced herself to ignore the almost imperceptible stench of rot and ash as his vessel consumed itself. "He will make me the same offer."

The archangel stood, hovering over her. "Illyria. You were always one of the clever ones, and you've always had a talent for choosing the winning side. Well, except for that time when the 'mud monkeys' trapped you down in the Well. Regardless, you're a survivor. I appreciate that about you. So, tell me, who would you place your money on? Archaeus – or me?"

Illyria tilted her head back, looked up at him thoughtfully, and said nothing.

"Well." Lucifer patted her on the hand. "I trust you'll make the right decision. Nice seeing you, Illyria."

The Old One watched as he strode up the aisle towards the nave of the church, disappearing just before he reached the altar.

 _He's bad news_ , protested the Burkle when she stopped trembling with fear, safely locked away in her cage in the depths of Illyria's consciousness.

 _Yes_ , concurred Illyria, amused despite herself.  _For once, we are in agreement._

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Magic Town, London, England, 3:30 p.m.**

He had lost track of their location. They were somewhere in Magic Town, two stories beneath one of the less-traveled streets. But it didn't matter. Drusilla had been clever again, and she had brought him to one of her many hideaways. The vampire wondered briefly if this had been her idea, or if Archaeus had had a hand in its preparation.

Either way, the place wasn't half bad, Angelus concluded as he sprawled out on the massive four-poster bed. The rusting metal springs creaked beneath his weight. Admittedly, the place was a little Gothic-grunge for his tastes, but overall, Dru had done a fairly good job. His opinion of her planning skills rose even further when Drusilla pranced her way over to a door in the wall and twisted the handle, her wicked smile visible even in the half-gloom.

As she tugged at the door, a heavyset man in his mid-forties tumbled out. Bound at the wrists and ankles, he tumbled to the ground, unconscious.

"I thought Daddy might be hungry," purred Drusilla. She hoisted the man by the collar and dragged him over towards the bed as if he were weightless, dropping him near the foot of the bed. The vampire drew her long, pale skirt up over her knees and crawled across the mildewed mattress. Her dark eyes were locked on those of her sire.

Angelus grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her down against the filthy sheets. "You know, now that you mention it, I am a bit peckish," he commented as he rolled on top of Drusilla, trapping her with one knee on either side of her thighs. "Just not for blood." He lowered his head and kissed her.

When they broke apart, a single drop of crimson blood glistened from a scrape on her lip. Drusilla moaned and reached up, knotting her fingers around the back of Angelus's neck. "Naughty Daddy." She nipped at the corner of his mouth, and her fangs came just short of piercing the skin. "Naughty."

"Dru –"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

Afterwards, when he had indulged nearly each and every one of Drusilla's darkest fantasies and finished draining the last ounce of blood from the overweight financier, Angelus lounged back against the pillows, his arms crossed beneath his head. Smiling at his own private joke, the vampire hummed. Drusilla glanced up from her adoring examination of his chest. Somewhere in the middle of the excitement, he had lost his shirt. Angelus didn't really mind. He licked his lips, already planning for the amusements of the night ahead. As he did so, his humming turned into words.

_"There is a house in New Orleans, they call the Rising Sun . . ."_


	86. Long Ago and Far Away, pt 10

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Piccadilly Circus, London, England, 6:30 p.m.**

A pillow smacked into her face, yanking Faith out of a perfectly reasonable dream involving a new Bond movie and a carton of buttery popcorn the size of a chunky toddler.

"Oi, Slayerhead. Rise and shine."

Already regretting the lost popcorn, she blinked the last of the sleep out of her eyes and hurled the pillow back across the room. It made a satisfying thunk as it collided with Spike's chest. "You need to work on your bedside manner," the Slayer grumbled. She stretched her arm out across the bed and shook the hunter's shoulder gently. "Dean."

"What time is it?" he mumbled, not bothering to lift his head.

"Half past six," Spike supplied.

"Means we got what, five hours?"

"And a half," added Faith helpfully. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Crossing the room, she began searching through her chest of drawers for a pair of clean socks. "Thanks for waiting so long to wake us up."

The blond vampire lifted a single shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Didn't see much point in ruining your afternoon."

"Still." The Slayer tugged the black socks on one at a time, reflecting that she needed to get some sunshine ASAP. She was starting to be nearly as pale as Drusilla. "Willow have any luck so far?"

He shook his head. "She's been on the phone all day with Giles and various covens."

Dean flinched involuntarily. At the best of times, 'coven' was not his favorite word in the universe, and he liked the pluralized form even less. Cognizant of the way both Slayer and vampire's eyes followed his flinch, he turned the movement into an exaggerated stretch that resulted in his reaching for his cell phone on Faith's desk.

"Any word from Cass?"

"Not yet."

Spike cocked his head to one side as he did a little mental math. "Cass," he tried the word out. "I'm guessing that might be the Castiel you were mentioning earlier?"

"And if it is?" Faith challenged.

The vampire glanced out towards the bedroom window. Like every other window in the flat, it had been replaced in the last year or so with the same sort of incredibly expensive glass that Wolfram & Hart had used to keep its undead employees from practicing the art of spontaneous combustion. The last few tendrils of daylight streamed in through the partially opened blinds, leaving a faint trail of gold across the carpet near the foot of the bed.

"I did more reading on Archaeus," he said after a long moment. "Nasty brute. It might not hurt to have an extra set of hands – even if they come with wings – I mean strings – attached."

"Right." Faith rolled her eyes. Not even sundown, and Spike was resorting to puns already. It was going to be a long night. She lifted her laptop off the desk and began typing a website name into the search bar. "Thanks again, Spike," she said in a clear dismissal. "You can tell Buffy we'll be there in a minute."

Rarely one to acknowledge a hint, much less take it, he hovered over her shoulder and glanced at the computer screen. "Whatcha doing, pet?"

"Getting myself another Orb of Thesulah," replied the Slayer, just a hair past tetchy.

Spike leaned in closer, his forehead wrinkling as he frowned. "You can order them off the Internet?"

"It's not just for porn anymore," observed Faith humorlessly as she typed in a few keywords into eBay, as good of a place to start as any other. "It's a new world out there, Spike. Flying carpets and all that crap. A whole new world."

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, St. Cuthbert's School, London, England, 8:15 p.m.**

In the end, Angelus's fun was cut short. He was just considering convincing Drusilla to join him for round two, or round five, or whatever round they were currently on when another premonition struck her. This one was a bit more forceful than the others. Instead of the lilting whispers of stars that might or might not exist, this time the Sight hit her like a freight train barreling its way across the deserted Australian outback, crammed to bursting with coal and unwilling to stop for anything or anyone.

She shrieked and sank down onto the concrete floor beside the drab bed, clutching her forehead in both hands and moaning in pain. Realizing that whoever was on the other end of the vision meant business, Angelus retrieved his shirt and did up the buttons. He even bothered tucking the tails into his black trousers and made a mental note that next time he went out for dinner, he was choosing someone who made better fashion choices than that pesky Angel.

Only once his clothing was tidied to his satisfaction did the vampire turn his attention to Drusilla. He gripped her by the elbows and lifted her to her feet. "Well?"

"It's  _Him_ ," hissed the vampire, her hands clenched into fists, her long fingernails driving into her skin and leaving pale white half-moons in her palms. " _He_  is not pleased."

"Well,  _He_  can kiss my –ss," grumbled Angelus, but he did so under his breath. Louder, he said, "Dru, stop with the dramatic pronouns. If it's Archaeus, just use his damn name."

" _He_  is the Master," insisted Drusilla. "The  _real_  Master. And  _He_  is furious, for we have not been dutiful, not done what was right, not done what we ought.  _He_  says the plan may fail because we are not worthy."

For Dru, this was one of the longest, most lucid speeches that Angelus had heard from her in a long time. He blinked once. His plans for the Slayers were not quite set in stone, not yet. There was still some room for flexibility. Perhaps he could work on whatever it was Archaeus demanded, keep the petty tyrant demon off his back for a little longer, until he had finished his business with the Slayers. Some things should not be rushed. Dealing with Buffy a final time was among them.

With far more patience than he felt, he sighed and said, "Okay, Dru. What does He want us to do?"

That had been an hour ago, and now here he was, using Angel's carefully tended lock picks to break into the main office at St. Cuthbert's. Drusilla waited outside, which was for the best. She tended to get a little . . . twitchy . . . in enclosed buildings like this one. Besides, someone needed to watch in case Buffy or one of her over eager Scoobies decided that the school was still in need of protection. It wasn't; one of the students was. But Angelus highly doubted either the blonde or the brunette pain in the ass would figure that out.

The tumblers clicked gently for him as the lock submitted to the inevitable. He pushed the door open and crossed the room to the series of heavy filing cabinets behind the secretary's desk. Both the Internet and the phone book had proven useless for this, and it was time to resort to slightly more old-fashioned methods. The vampire slid open the first heavy metal drawer, the fingers of his free hand dancing lightly across the tops of the tan folders.

Unfortunately, this drawer only carried him through the F's. It took four more drawers and another filing cabinet before Angelus finally found the folder he was looking for. His fingertips closed over the file in question, and he yanked it out from between its fellows. Spreading the folder's contents across one of the secretary's desks, the vampire flicked on a small reading lamp and began to skim quickly.

_Mary Weatherford_. He stared down at the picture of the slight fourteen-year-old girl with a pale, pointed chin and a curtain of dark hair. It was nearly the color of Drusilla's, he noted absently as he turned the page. Ah. There it was. What he needed.

Like many other proper schools, St. Cuthbert's made a point of keeping track of their student's home addresses. Little Mary was currently living with her father, Niles Weatherford, a researcher at a rather obscure museum that specialized in Sumerian and pre-Sumerian history. Niles had been a busy little beaver, and his research team had recently unearthed an ancient statue from the ruins of Ikaros on Failaka Island, just off the coast of Kuwait.

The disturbance of the statue had awakened the demon in whose image it had been created. For the first time in thousands of years, as the statue was cleaned and restored and sneakily shipped back to the mists of London, the chains which bound Archaeus so firmly in his present dimension weakened. Only slightly, but the mere hint of fragility was all he needed to insinuate himself into the dreams of those few remaining of his bloodline.

Drusilla had felt it. Spike had felt it. Even Angel, wrapped in his cocoon of self-superiority, had felt it. And now, with two of his children prepared to do what was necessary, Archaeus was only a mere ritual away from breaking free of his chains entirely and returning to the dimension that had cast him out. Whereupon, Angelus presumed, copying down Niles Weatherford's home address onto a hot pink Post-it note, he would set to destroying the world.

Frowning, the vampire returned the file to its proper place in the cabinet and switched off the lamp, sending the office into darkness once more. He folded the address in half and slipped it into his pocket. Perhaps, if he phrased things properly, he could persuade Drusilla that nothing would be hurt if they delayed releasing Archaeus. Not for long, just for a little while.

He ventured back out into the cool evening air to meet Dru, once again humming softly to himself. To be honest, Angelus had no arguments with the entire world being sent to Hell. He just wanted to send a couple of Slayers there personally, first.

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Piccadilly Circus, London, England, 8:30 p.m.**

"Okay," announced Buffy in the tones of one who was used to command and who was also not used to having those commands being questioned, "here's the plan." She turned to the stove, where Dean was dropping the last grilled cheese sandwich onto a platter stacked half a dozen deep with them. "We're going to patrol Magic Town. Spike and I will take the northern half of the neighborhood, and Faith, you and Dean with take the southern half. We'll patrol for two hours and then meet up at Nadira's apartment. Any news from your friend Castiel?" she asked the other Slayer with excessive politeness.

Dean spun the dial on the burner to the 'off' position and set the platter of sandwiches on the kitchen table in front of Willow. "No word from Cass yet," he answered for Faith, plopping onto the barstool next to her. "But he'll contact me when he finds something."

"Anyone want a beer?" Spike rifled through the fridge, which was uncharacteristically devoid of alcohol. "Never mind." Tutting softly in disgust, he withdrew an old milk jug filled with pig's blood and poured himself a tall glass. "You really have been letting the shopping go lately," he teased Faith with mock seriousness.

"Bite me, Spike. No, wait," the Slayer amended as she reached across Dean to retrieve the thickest, most burned grilled cheese off the pile. "On second thought, you actually might."

The vampire flicked her the V-sign with the hand not currently curled around his glass of O-negative. Despite her better judgement, Willow snickered into her own sandwich. Even Buffy cracked a smile, accepting the grilled cheese that Dean offered her.

"Patrol plan sounds good, B," said Faith around a mouthful of bread and cheese. Or at least, that was what she had intended to say. It came out a little more like a rusted chainsaw whacking its way through a pile of damp, moldy leaves. Swallowing, she tried again. "What time did you want to head out?"

Buffy waited until her mouth was empty before answering. "Soon as possible."

"You think he's gonna want to do the big showdown tonight?" Faith wondered. She devoured the remnants of her sandwich with a speed which would have made a cackle of hungry hyenas proud.

The Slayers met each other's gazes, and a rare moment of singular understanding passed between them. "I don't know," Buffy admitted, her eyes falling back down to her dinner. "Guess we'll find out."

"Don't worry, B." The brunette scampered down from her barstool and clapped the other woman on the shoulder. "Angelus knows you're in town. He's not going to be able to pass up the chance to show off, you know, impress you a little bit."

"Great," mumbled Buffy, looking at her grilled cheese morosely. "That's exactly what we need: Angelus trying to impress me."

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Magic Town, London, England, 8:53 p.m.**

The next time a man offered to purchase her a drink, Illyria rather thought she might lose what little self-control she had remaining to her and send someone up in flames. After a somewhat pointless day, mostly spent wandering through the National Portrait Gallery and refreshing her knowledge of Biblical mythology from the Burkle's encyclopedic memory, she had decided to reward herself with a few beers. It was a scientific experiment, she decided, thoroughly unaware of how much that thought smacked of the mortal scientist. How much alcohol did it take for an Old One to feel inebriated?

Thus far, this particular Old One did not have an answer. What she did have was a nasty tangle of thoughts, most of them revolving around Lucifer's long-dreamt-of Apocalypse and the concept of vessels. Draining her fifth longneck, Illyria scrunched up her features and cast her memory backwards into the depths of time, when she had first met Lucifer and his older brother, the one called Michael.

If their brief encounter earlier today had been anything to go by, Lucifer was just as smarmy as she remembered him. To be brutally honest, the ancient demon had little desire for him to succeed. He was, well, to use one of the Burkle's words, obnoxious. As for his brother, her recollection of Michael had faded almost completely. He had been bright – that, she could never forget. A white flame in the darkness. His laughter could be kind or cruel, possessing a far sharper edge to it than most swords ever did. And he had been beautiful to look at.

Illyria glanced downwards at her own hand. She flexed her fingers into a fist, absently watching the movement of tendons beneath the thin layer of skin, and reflected on the idiosyncrasies of Creation. Lucifer and Michael – both so powerful, and yet neither one of them could fulfill his foreordained role without first being given consent to slide into the body of a human.

Smirking to herself, she relaxed her fist and signaled to the vampire bartender for another beer. Confined in this wretched human form she might be, but at least Illyria had never been forced to bend so low as to ask permission of the Burkle.

When she pondered further on the archangels' current conundrum and the Burkle's surprising familiarity with the rumored Apocalypse, Illyria found it even more risible. These Winchesters, the designated vessels, had the gall to stand between Lucifer and his brother. It was ironic, it was amusing, and it added an unexpected dimension of uncertainty to all the old prophecies. If there were no vessels – or, worse, if the vessels did not acquiesce – could there truly be an Apocalypse?

As she considered this subject, Illyria nursed her sixth beer and hunted through Fred's memories of her week with Dean Winchester. Who knew? This new Michael vessel, while perhaps not as glorious as the original, might even do a decent job and give that famed sword of the first and oldest archangel an even sharper edge. Not to mention, he was by no means unpleasant-looking.

She still did not know yet where her final support would lie, but on one point Illyria was determined: Michael and Lucifer ought to be allowed their fight. It had been nearly the entire age of the universe in coming. What a shame it would be now for so much planning to go to waste, simply because Archaeus and his spawn wanted to play at being in control.

For the moment, Illyria was content to allow this universe to carry on for a little longer. One thing that could not be argued - Michael and his brother had always had  _style_. And if the world was to end, it might as well be done by someone who knew how to put on a good show.

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, London, England, 9:15 p.m.**

Niles Weatherford lived in a mildly shabby red brick row house in a respectable London neighborhood. It was a suitable arrangement for a man whose career had always tended more towards the academic than the ambitious, and the single light shining from a second-story window signaled that someone was indeed home. Angelus and Drusilla loitered on the front step, smiling at one another in the faint illumination from the upstairs window. In response to her sire's raised eyebrow, Drusilla beamed. Time to move.

Angelus rang the doorbell a single time and straightened the edges of his black coat. Up until approximately twenty minutes previous, it had belonged to a footballer who fancied himself quite the martial artist in his spare time. To his brief and fatal surprise, he had wandered into the wrong alley to relieve himself at the wrong time. With alacrity, the two vampires had relieved him of his illusions, his life, and his jacket, in roughly that order.

Gradually, a quick rush of footsteps hurried down a staircase somewhere within the house and approached. The heavy wooden front door was pulled back, and a small girl in her early teens looked up at them blankly. "Hello?"

"Hi. Mary, isn't it?" said Angelus in the charming voice that had articulated many a person's doom.

"Yes," said Mary suspiciously. "Should I know you?"

"My name's Liam. I work with Ms. Lyonne from your school."

"Oh?" Mary's suspicion deepened. "Did she send you here?"

"As a matter of fact," Angelus smiled down at the teenager, pouring every drop of charisma that he possessed into the expression, "she did. Ms. Lyonne was worried about you, and she sent me to check in on you, see how you're doing after the incident."

"Why didn't she come herself?" demanded Mary, although her skepticism was slowly beginning to vanish in the full force of Angelus's smile.

"She had to work tonight," the vampire supplied. "So she sent me to ask you some follow-up questions, just to make sure you're okay. Are your parents at home?" he inquired innocently.

The girl's mouth twisted. "My dad's here," she said grudgingly. "I suppose it would be all right if you came in. Just . . . don't mention any of this to him, okay? He thinks I got into a fight with some girls in the locker room; I would rather leave out the fanged missing dead boys from my class part."

"Won't mention a thing," promised Angelus as the teenager stepped aside to provide space in the doorway for the two vampires to step through. "Where did you say your father was?" he asked, following Mary into what appeared to be the living room.

Mary cleared a couple of magazines off the sofa to create a place for her visitors to sit down. "He's upstairs in his office. Like I said, I'd rather he didn't know about any of this."

"We won't tell him," Drusilla assured her. She was very composed; only the wild light in her eyes betrayed her inner instability. "We would just like for you to do one little thing for us in return."

"What's that?" wondered the girl, turning her back on her guests in order to toss the magazines onto a bookshelf.

A hand clamped down on her shoulder, and Mary looked up into a pair of yellow eyes. The charming smile that had so entranced her only moments previous vanished to be replaced by a grinning, leering mouth full of fangs.

"Scream."


	87. Long Ago and Far Away, pt 11

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Magic Town, London, England, 9:22 p.m.**

As Dean stepped off the subway platform, his cell phone rang. The caller ID showed an unknown number. Exchanging speculative looks with Faith, the hunter hurried up the stairway and away from the crowd of passengers. "Hello?" he said gruffly, cupping the phone against his ear.

"Dean?" rasped a familiar deep voice.

"Cass?"

"I found what you were looking for."

"Where?"

"St. Bartholomew's Hospital."

He set his teeth and prepared for the worst. "How bad is it?"

"The Slayer is healing well," said Castiel slowly. "She does not appear to trust me, and so I have not been able to ascertain the answers to any of your other questions, unfortunately."

"But she can talk?"

"Yes. Faith informed me that this woman acts as a conduit for much of the wild magic working its way through this part of the city. I believe that magic is helping her to heal."

Dean glanced over his left shoulder to where Spike, Willow, and the two Slayers were watching him impatiently. "Thanks. We'll be there as soon as we can."

"Good. By the way," the angel added as an afterthought, "I had to place this call collect. I hope you don't mind?"

The hunter cringed at the thought of how expensive his phone bill was going to end up running this month. "It's fine, Cass," he said as sincerely as he could manage. "It's fine."

"Well?" wondered Buffy as he tucked his phone into his coat pocket. "He found Nadira?"

"Yeah."

"Where?" Faith asked.

"Some place called St. Barthlomew's?"

"Barts," corrected Spike automatically. He scratched the tip of one ear. "Been around since the twelfth century. Actually spent a week there as a patient, back when I was alive. Developed a bad case of pneumonia when I was a kid."

Willow and Buffy both turned to look at him in surprise.

"You did?" echoed the red-haired witch.

"I didn't know that," mumbled Buffy quietly.

"Yeah, well, there's lots about me you don't know," said Spike cheerfully. "None of ya. I'm a mystery, I am."

"Ri-ight." Faith drew the word out into two syllables. "Well, Man of Mystery, if you're finished with the deep revelations about your childhood, how about we haul ass to Barts before Nadira disappears again?"

"You three go." The blonde Slayer gestured with her chin at Faith, Dean, and Willow. "Spike and I'll start searching, see if we can pick up Angelus's trail."

The brunette nodded in acknowledgment. "Got it. Your phone working, B?"

"It should. I sorted things out with my provider this morning."

"Okay, then. Let's get moving."

* * *

"You any closer to unraveling the riddle of why that orb went boom earlier this morning?" Faith asked conversationally as the three made their way up the smooth steps of St. Bartholomew's, their feet occasionally slipping and sliding in the hollows left by other pairs of shoes over the centuries.

Shouldering open the heavy front door, Willow grimaced. She had been trying not to think about that. "Almost," she replied. "Giles and I were teleconferencing earlier – and we definitely agree that something or someone interrupted the spell. But I don't know who."

"That's helpful," the Slayer grumbled under her breath in an aside.

Not quietly enough. "It'll get there," said Dean without heat, but Faith could hear the faint warning in his tone and feel his gaze on the back of her head.

She shrugged away the implied criticism. "Which ward did Castiel say Nadira was on?"

Dean briefly surveyed the signs near the information desk. "This way."

An elevator ride and three long hallways later, they found Castiel standing guard outside an unremarkable hospital room. The angel's usually solemn expression had fallen several levels down to dour, and he did not smile at their approach. "I was expecting you sooner."

"Everything okay, Cass?"

"Your Slayer friend ejected me from the room."

"Nadira asked you to leave?" Faith clarified.

Castiel's mouth twisted. "Not exactly. It was a more literal ejection than that."

The hunter lowered his voice. "An angel-banishing ward?"

"No. She called someone. I believe they are called security? I could have smitten them, but it seemed more prudent to allow them to escort me elsewhere." His cold eyes strayed to Willow, and he asked Dean, "Another friend?"

"Oh, yeah, uh, this is Willow. She's a witch, but apparently not the making deals with demons kind. Don't ask me to explain it. I don't get it, either. Willow, this is Castiel."

Willow extended her hand, smiling pleasantly. "Delighted to meet you, Mr. Castiel." He stared at her hand with mild distaste until it fell limply back to the witch's side. Rallying, Willow forged ahead. "So if this isn't Nadira's room, where is it?"

"Around this next corner and six doors down. I will let the three of you proceed. If there is nothing else you need, Dean, I shall return to my search."

Dean hung back and allowed the two women to round the corner ahead of him. "I'd appreciate it if you could stick around, Cass," he admitted. "We've got at least one ancient demon to fight, and maybe more . . ."

His frown deepening, the angel inquired, "Which ancient demon? You did not mention this earlier."

"Brain was a little scrambled earlier," Dean excused himself. "There's some blue chick, calls herself Illyria, and some other demon named Archaeus. He's trying to punch his way into this dimension or something, but Illyria is already here."

Before the last word fell from the hunter's lips, Castiel disappeared. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets and hurried after Faith and Willow. "Typical," he muttered to himself. "Just typical."

As he turned the corner, he saw the women just a few feet ahead. Faith had halted in the middle of the hallway and was waiting for him, her arms folded across her stomach. When he reached them, she tilted her head to the side in a silent question.

"Not brave enough to go in without me?" he joked.

"In your dreams, cowboy. Come on. Let's get this over with."

Faith knocked on the wooden door of room 7-4C and walked in without waiting for a response. Her face paled momentarily as she took in the condition of the room's occupant. "Hey," she said awkwardly.

"So the monotone American was working for you after all." Nadira lifted her head from the pillow and ran a hand through her tousled chin-length curly brown hair. "And here I thought he was one of Archaeus's lot. Sit." She waved the same hand towards the plastic chairs beside her bed and took in her other two visitors with a bemused expression. "Wow, Faith. You really called in the big guns this time. Hi, Willow."

"How are you feeling?" asked the witch.

"Been better, been worse," Nadira answered tersely. "I guess you're here to find out what happened last night?"

"Good place as any to start," said the brunette Slayer in even tones. "I'm sorry I wasn't there earlier to pitch in – kinda got held up by Drusilla."

Nadira snorted. "No surprise there, Faith. That was rather the point." But her demeanor softened with the apology. "Can you bust me out of here?"

"Maybe. Depends on what the doctors say."

The other woman's eyes narrowed. "You used to be fun, Lehane," she complained. "Always mixed up with the wrong vampires, but fun. Way I heard it, you've broken out of a hospital a time or two yourself."

Faith lowered herself into the chair closest to the head of the bed, taking care to go easy on her still-bruised ribs. "I didn't say that I wouldn't bust you loose," she pointed out. "Just that I'm not doing it until I talk to your doctor. Now tell me what happened."

Rolling her eyes, the younger Slayer capitulated. "Fine. But you'll have to be content with the short version. They've been giving me morphine, and if I go on too long, it will stop making sense."

Nadira began her tale, addressing the blank wall opposite. "Some of this you've probably figured out already, but whatever. Here goes. Drusilla grabbed me at my apartment. I thought it was Eliza at first – she had mentioned something about stopping over – so when I heard the knock, I just yelled for whoever it was to come in. Rookie mistake."

Although Willow winced, the others maintained their poker faces. "So then what?" prompted Faith.

"Woke up in the tannery. Drusilla and her mangy crew had chained me down to an old work table while I was out. There were inscriptions on the cuffs," she said thoughtfully, "old ones. Blocked all the magic. I couldn't hear the city anymore, couldn't feel it. It was probably about then that I realized I was sh-t outta luck."

"She knew about you," Dean surmised.

"Vampire bitch knew  _all_  about me. And when she figured out I was awake, she started singing." Nadira shuddered. "Ugh. I still can't get it out of my head. I think it's all clear, and then my thoughts will start wandering, and I can hear her voice again."

"Sounds like Drusilla," agreed Willow.

"Anyway, soon as she started singing, a handful of her goons entered the room. They started chanting something – don't ask me what the language was. Older than dirt, like as not, but that's all I can tell you. That's where it all starts to get blurry. There was chanting, and some kind of incense, and the crazy bitch bit me on the wrist, just above the manacles. Next thing I knew, somebody else had hopped up inside my body with me, and I was shoved into a tiny dark corner way back behind my ears."

Faith leaned forward in her seat. "Archaeus."

"One and the same. Honestly, it's all bits and flashes from there. I remember vaguely when Angel and some woman came into the room. That got the demon excited. He was humming, but on the inside, somehow. My whole body seemed to be vibrating. He knocked the girl unconscious, and I thought she was dead. The way her skull cracked into that concrete . . . "

"And then?" This was the part that Willow was most interested in. How exactly had Archaeus removed Angel's soul?

"He worked a spell. Something about blood of the creator, blood of the created, and purity, I think. There was a flash of white light, and then he was back. Angelus," she spit out the last word as though saying the name galled her. "God, I hate that smarmy bastard."

"You're not the only one," mumbled Dean, earning himself a brief smile from the Slayer on the bed.

"Well, they talked for a minute and then –"

"What about?"

"Sorry, Faith. I was too out of it for major details at that point. Angelus left, and shortly after that, the girl he'd brought in with him got up. Only she was different, all shot through with blue, and her eyes glowed. She looked the thing inside me right in between the eyes, called it by its name, and then she lifted her hand and sent a giant frigging wave of blue fire at me. If I'd been in control of anything, I can promise you that would have been a major code brown moment."

She continued, "Weird thing, though. The fire didn't hurt at all. And that demon, Archaeus or whatever his name was, wasn't up inside me any more. The blue woman lifted her other hand, and the chains rusted through. Brand new to thousands of years old in five seconds flat. So when she told me to scatter, I didn't need telling twice. Hid up with an old friend of mine - I'm not giving you their name, so don't even bother asking. Waited until the sun was nice and high in the sky before staggering in here."

"Why didn't you call?" pressed Faith. "Once you were at your friend's, I mean. I could have helped – "

"Two problems with that scenario," Nadira said bluntly. "One, since that trap was partially set for you, I was about sixty percent sure that you were fang food. Two, if you were still up and breathing, I wasn't sure how much help you'd be. Didn't know if you had the stones to take down Angel, even if he was once again certifiable. Glad to see that I was wrong, though. I mean, not that I mind and all, but why aren't you fang food?"

"Illyria ex machina. That woman you saw – she used to be a god."

"You always keep the weirdest company. She on our side?"

"Neutral, I think. For the moment, anyway."

"Neutral's useless."

"Better than being on  _their_  side," Faith commented with resignation.

"Fair enough. Now will you get me the hell out of here?"

The brunette Slayer rose to her feet. "Got a couple of questions for your doctor. Then we'll talk."

* * *

She slumped back into the room a few minutes later, just in time to catch Willow finishing up an explanation of what had happened with the Orb of Thesulah. "And that's why I've got these stitches," the witch concluded, tapping at the bandage on her forehead.

"Interesting," speculated Nadira. "I might be able to help you there. If –" she paused for emphasis and to glare at Faith, "If you get me out of here."

"Doc says your blood count is unexplainably low and that your temperature is running suspiciously high." Faith held up a hand to stop the younger Slayer's vehement retort. "But I convinced him to write you discharge papers anyway. It'll be on your health record as 'Against Medical Advice,' or whatever that means, but the nurse will be in in a minute to disconnect your IV."

"You actually came though." Nadira sounded surprised.

"Shocking, isn't it?" The brunette remarked sarcastically. "Just remember, the next time you're pissed at me, you now officially owe me one." Her phone began ringing in her coat pocket. "Hang on a second. Hello?" she said into the speaker.

The Slayer listened intently to the voice on the other end of the line, her exasperation quickly making the transition to angry as hell and then all the way through to the other side, settling into quiet dispassion. "And the father?" she said after thirty seconds or so. "Uh huh. I see. Thanks for keeping us in the loop, Brandt. Right, yeah. Really appreciate it."

Returning her mobile to her jacket, Faith's shoulders slumped. "That was Inspector Brandt again," she announced to the room.

Nadira raised her eyebrows. "He's in on this, too? Is there anyone you haven't co-opted into helping you take down Buffy's ex?"

"What's happened?" asked Dean.

"Mary Weatherford is dead."

The hunter concentrated, hard. There seemed to be something that she wasn't saying. "Mary Weath – the girl we saved from those vampires at the school a couple nights ago?"

"One and the same. City of London police received a 999 call twenty minutes ago, telling them to hurry to a certain address, or the Red Queen would lose her head."

"Alice in Wonderland?" Willow looked askance. "That's a new one."

"I don't think the content of the message matters too much, Red. Police got there, found Mary in her living room. Bloodless, bite marks, the usual nine yards. There were signs of a struggle, both in the living room and in the study upstairs. Her father is missing, and someone's ransacked the place."

Nadira gnawed on her bottom lip. "When you say someone . . ."

"Angelus and Drusilla. I'm sure of it." Faith glanced down at the floor, her hands twisting themselves into fists at her sides.

"This changes things," Dean observed aloud.

"It does," Willow agreed. "You guys go – call Buffy, meet Brandt, do whatever you've got to do to track down Angelus. I'll get Nadira back to the flat, and we'll set the ritual up again. Maybe this time with two of us, we can overpower whoever is trying to prevent the spell."

"You sure?"

Willow nodded. "Go. I can take care of this."

That was enough for Faith. The Slayer spared one last warning glance at Nadira and then she grabbed Dean's wrist. "Come on," she said in a low voice. "We'd better move fast."

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Museum of Sumerian Art, London, England, 10:30 p.m.**

The man had taken too long to speak, and now he was taking too long to die. She glanced listlessly at the carpeted floor beneath her feet. Once so white, so pure, so clean, and now liberally splattered with the brightest crimson. It made quite a pretty portrait, but she was not in the mood for finger painting. The time was almost upon them. The Stars had hushed into quivering silence. This was the moment when anything could happen, when the magic returned and the world opened wide and everything became what it ought to be.

But for some inexplicable reason, Daddy was delaying. He had had his fun – and more than enough of fun. They were both filled to bursting with the lifeblood of Slayers and bikers and children, so much so that she thought her stomach might explode. There was no reason why he should be going so slowly now.

The man had screamed when he saw his daughter, emptied and emptied, never to be filled again. He had screamed when they tied him to a chair in his museum office and asked questions creatively. He had screamed when she had dreamed a dream with him, clouding his eyes with the image of his dead little girl, begging him to tell the sharp lady where the proper statue might be.

In the end, he had sobbed, as they all did, and answered all the questions until there were no more questions to be asked. Now it was time to end this, but still her Daddy hesitated. The ritual itself was simple enough that even her most sluggish servant could have performed it. All that remained was to slice the bleeding man one last time, to drain his life into a stone vessel, of which the museum had plenty. Then would come the mixing of their blood with his, and the offering of the blood to the true master with the proper words. Simple, simple, simple.

Her entire body quivered with the strain. Why was he waiting? What was there to wait for?

"Enough." She had never rebelled against her Daddy before, not when he was all right and proper and himself, but this was too much. Flinging him to the side, she reached for an ancient sandstone chalice, already rescued from one of the exhibits downstairs. She sliced through the bleeding man's trachea and carotid arteries in a single vicious stroke and held the chalice up to the ruby red stream. Her insides tingled as the red climbed higher and higher against the sides of the chalice.

"What the hell, Dru?"

Not even the specter of her Daddy's wrath could distract her now. "There will be time for Slayers later," she said as forcefully as she could manage. "The stars have promised. He has promised. There will be time for Slayers. Besides," she added, "if Daddy eats any more Slayers tonight, he will grow fat." Chalice clutched carefully in her hands, she turned away from the silent corpse. "Come."

She led the way down the poky wooden stairs to the museum proper, winding her way through room after cluttered room, heedless of the hollow eyes of the featureless gods watching her from every wall. Finally, in the last room of all, she found  _Him_.

_He_  was the most ancient of all, his limestone features nearly worn away by sand and time. But  _He_  was still  _Him_ , and if she said the words,  _He_  would come.  _He_  had sworn it would be so, and the stars had confirmed it.

"Here." She made a slight incision across her palm and held her hand over the already nearly-filled chalice. Drip. Drip. Drip. Her tendons were singing. "Your turn."

Daddy accepted the stone knife, and he copied her actions. Drip. Drip. Drip. It was time.

"Ati me peta babka, ma nasu shumsu sar dalkhu ma asbu. Na shu amelserru, petu. Nasu, Archaeus, petu!"

On the last word, she lifted the chalice and poured its contents over His mouth. There came a great silence. Then the boundaries of the world shuddered, and the timeless limestone mouth opened, gasping and deep.  _He_  drank, and  _His_  mouth opened, a greater and greater chasm that revealed the truth of all things, all dark and swirling with stars like the highest expanses of the universe.

The mouth opened wider and ever wider, and finally  _He_  stepped out, taller than a mortal man could ever hope to be, fairer than the finest stars glittering in the skies,  _His_  face stern, wise, and cruel. She fell to her knees, tugging relentlessly at her Daddy's leather jacket until he followed suit. It was impossible to stand in the presence of such majesty and power.

For the first time in millennia,  _He_  stepped fully back into the air of the mortal world and gazed down at the last of  _His_  creations. "Hello, children."

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Magic Town, London, England, 10:05 p.m.**

Well on her way to pickling the Burkle's liver, Illyria glanced up from her half-empty Stella Artois to her new unwelcome visitor. "I did not realize they were allowing the little birds to fly down from the skies."

"Illyria," growled the unimpressive man standing in front of her, his tan trench coat rumpled and travel worn. "You have returned."

The former god king took another pull from her beer bottle. "You have the advantage of me, little bird. You seem overly familiar with one of my titles, and I have no name to put to you. Michael's cannon fodder did always blur into one another," she added sardonically, addressing the rim of her beer.

"My name is Castiel," announced the newcomer. "I am an angel of the Lord."

"I can see that." Illyria lifted her bottle and used it to point to something behind him. "Your wings are not as subtly hidden as you believe." She tilted the bottle upwards and finished off the last few ounces in one long drink. "Castiel . . ." Once again, Winifred Burkle's memories were of great use here. "Ah. Yes, now I can place you. You are the angel seeking to prevent the Apocalypse, are you not? You serve the Michael sword."

"I do not serve –"

She cut him off. "You do, in fact. It makes sense. Even such a leader as Michael is sure to lose a few soldiers from time to time through their own waywardness. And to those who doubt, the Michael sword might make a convincing leader. His eyes are certainly convincing enough," she added under her breath, as another of the Burkle's idle thoughts slipped its way past her guard.

Setting her bottle back down on the bar counter, she swiveled on her stool to face him more directly. "Why have you come looking for me, little bird? What is it that you desire?"

The angel did not have an immediate response. "I simply wished to –"

"To see if I was indeed as remarkable as the legends have said? I am flattered." Illyria waved the bartender over. "A shot of whiskey for me and another for my friend."

"I do not drink," said Castiel once the glasses had arrived and the bartender had once again meandered his way to the other side of the bar.

"Then it is two whiskeys for me. Your friend drinks," Illyria pointed out, tossing back the first shot. "From what I have observed, he drinks quite an amount. I am rather surprised at you," she admitted. "I would not have expected one of Michael's folk to approach me quite so boldly. At least not on their own. And although in this moment you may beat against the bars, when your sword becomes Michael's vessel, you will likewise submit yourself to the will of he who will fight the dragon. The Michael sword will be welcomed with open arms; you, perhaps not as kindly. I look forward to watching you grovel for his forgiveness."

Castiel's brow furrowed until the angel was nearly squinting at her. He tried to work out what exactly that last sentence had meant. "Do you intend to align yourself with Michael in the final conflict?" he asked in his gravelly voice. "The lore all says that you fought with Lucifer."

Purposefully misinterpreting his choice of prepositions, the god king said pensively, "With Lucifer and with Michael and with everyone else who crossed my path. I was not a particularly relaxed god. Be thankful that I am in a pleasant mood, little bird. Or this conversation would be working towards your ill."

Illyria finished her second shot and doodled idly in the condensation that had formed on the countertop, her finger trailing through the cool droplets. "I have a message for you to deliver. Take it to Michael, or whichever of his people will listen to you. Tell him that I have returned and that I have already spoken with his brother. Tell him that I await his arguments."

"I told you," Castiel replied stiffly. "I do not serve Michael."

The ancient demon tapped her finger down a single time on top of the sigil she had been drawing in the condensation. Castiel vanished without so much as a sound or a flash of light. None of the other bar patrons even looked over to see where he had gone.

"You will," Illyria said in a quiet voice to the empty air where the angel had been. "Sooner or later, all the little birds will flock together to fight the dragon."

At the very least, the appearance of this Castiel had answered one question for her. If the Michael sword in its mortal form could command the allegiance of a lesser angel – well, that heralded a great battle to come, when Lucifer and Michael finally settled one of the oldest scores in the universe. It would be a pity if something were to happen to the sword and prevent that. Even more so if that something were at the behest of Archaeus's spawn.

Signaling to the bartender to close her tab, she slipped down from her stool and zipped up the Burkle's jacket. It was, quite frankly, an inevitable conclusion. For the moment, the Michael sword required more protection than a fallen angel and a reckless Slayer could provide. She was going to have to get her hands dirty.

Illyria smiled to herself, so viciously that the approaching bartender encouraged her to have a nice evening and to forget the tab entirely. She smiled again, and the vampire scurried to the far side of the bar. She had always enjoyed getting her hands dirty. And this time, she felt deep in her bones, this time would be no exception.


	88. Long Ago and Far Away, pt 12

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, London, England, 11:20 p.m.**

By the time Dean and Faith arrived outside the Weatherfords' brick home, Buffy and Spike had already completed an overview of the crime scene with Inspector Brandt. The three stepped out onto the front porch and closed the door heavily behind them, their faces twisted in various expressions of disgust. As Faith charged forward, Buffy caught her by the shoulders.

"Trust me," she said firmly. "You don't want to go in there."

The brunette Slayer shook herself loose. "I have to," she said, disregarding the other woman's warning. "This one's on me. Protecting Mary was my responsibility. I could have stopped this, and I didn't." With a nod to Brandt, she squeezed her way between Buffy and Spike. Dean was hot on her heels; the others followed more slowly.

Faith surveyed the sitting room carnage and what was left of Mary Weatherford. The young girl lay facedown on the carpet, her dark hair in a wild tangled halo around her skull. Even from six feet away, gaping symmetric bite wounds were clearly visible on either side of her neck. Her small hands were still clenched into fists. A muscle pulsed in Faith's cheek.

"You couldn't have predicted this," said Buffy awkwardly. She could feel Dean Winchester's eyes boring into the side of her face. The Slayer didn't dare risk a glance in his direction. She knew what she would see: his lantern jaw set with a grimness that nutcrackers would envy, green gaze cold and challenging. Not that she ever would mention it to anyone, but Buffy was beginning to get the feeling that this hunter friend of Faith's could turn into one nasty piece of work. "You didn't know," she repeated, just to be on the safe side.

Not for the first time, the younger Slayer wondered if B felt as guilty over Angelus's actions as she did. They knew what he was, knew intimately what he was capable of – they were responsible for protecting others from him. Time and time again in the last twenty-four hours, they had failed miserably at that protective duty. It was starting to give Faith a migraine.

"What does the rest of the place look like?" asked Dean behind her, his voice growing deeper with frustration.

"Someone tossed the entirety of the upstairs," the inspector informed him. "Looks like Niles Weatherford, her father, was working on something on his computer. There's an email document open that auto-saved at around 9:30. When our forensic pathologist comes out, we'll corroborate and see if that is anywhere close to the time of death."

"Do we know anything more about Niles?" Faith wondered, frowning. "Murdering the child, kidnapping the parent. – that isn't Angelus's usual M.O."

"No, it's not," Buffy agreed. "Tell them what you told us earlier, Brandt?"

The policeman nodded. "Indeed. Mr. Weatherford worked at the Museum of Sumerian Art. Small place, not big with the tourist crowd, but Weatherford and his colleagues are very respected in their field. According to some of the emails on his computer, Weatherford's team recently unearthed an ancient statue on an island off the coast of Kuwait. Apparently the statue was of some ancient deity, but the scientists had yet to conclude which one."

"This's just a wild guess, but I'm gonna go out on a limb here and cast my vote on that being a statue of Archaeus," Dean said glumly.

Spike clapped him on the back. "Hunter boy's starting to get with the picture. That was our guess, too."

"Museum time?" suggested Buffy.

"Why not?" Faith mumbled sardonically. "I could use a refresher on my Sumerian."

* * *

**June 17th, 2009, Museum of Sumerian Art, London, England, 11:45 p.m.**

"On a scale of one to ten, what do you think is the likelihood that they're still in there, waiting?" Spike asked conversationally. The four stood on the sidewalk outside the museum, a narrow three-story granite affair hemmed in between two large financial office buildings.

"If they've been here at all," grumbled Dean.

"They've been here," Buffy corrected him. "From Angelus's perspective, it makes sense. I'd say maybe a seven, Spike."

"So it's a trap."

Faith's eyes glinted in the pale light from the street lamp, and her smile was positively feral. "Of course it's a trap, Dean. That's what's going to make this fun."

"The Burkle always thought that your sense of amusement was a little skewed. I must admit that I do not quite see her point."

A female figure emerged from the shadows on the right side of the museum. She had traded Fred's cardigan and skinny jeans for a set of maroon leather body armor, and her eyes still gleamed icy blue. "Faith. Spike." She nodded to each of them in turn.

"Hi, Blue," said Spike cheerfully. "Wondered if you'd want to join the party."

Buffy reminded him, "Spike. This is not a party."

"What do you want, Illyria?" Faith kept her tone as even as possible. She had no desire to receive a concussion this early in the evening.

"I have decided that you are less of an annoyance than Angelus." Illyria over-articulated each of her syllables in an effort to conceal her half-day at the bar from the others.

Spike grinned. "Well, that's not hard, seeing as how he's about the most annoying prick in Creation."

"Focus, please?" hissed Buffy.

Ignoring this little exchange, the former god King went on, "Besides, you need my assistance. Archaeus is beyond any of you."

Dean put two and two together. "He's out, then?"

Illyria's uncomfortable blue gaze settled upon him. "Indeed," she said quietly. "But do not worry. I have always been more than a match for Archaeus."

"Okay, then." Faith turned to Buffy. "How do we want to split this one up, B?" Forestalling any potential arguments, she swung around and added, "You want to work with us, Bluebird, you play by our rules. Can you live with that?"

The Old One's gaze narrowed. "For the present," she promised reluctantly. "For the present."

Since it was the best she was going to get, Faith could run with this. "B?"

Dropping her voice to just above a whisper, the blonde Slayer leaned in closer to her brunette counterpart. "Can we trust her?"

Faith eyed Illyria warily. "For the present, I think we can. The way Fred used to tell it, she's not big on subterfuge. Tends to think it's beneath her."

"All right. In that case, you and I can take the front entrance. Spike, Dean, you take the back. Illyria . . . Uh, you can go with the boys. Everyone, keep your phones handy. First one to find something, call the others. Okay. Here we go."

* * *

The two Slayers crept through the heavy oaken double doors of the museum, moving silently. Each woman carried two stakes, one clutched in each hand, as they passed through one darkened room after another. Listening with all their might, they checked every shadow and used the glow of their phone screens to read the inscriptions on every statue, figurine, or stone wall carving that they could find.

At some point in time, the museum must have been a house. Rather than opening off of a central hallway, the majority of the exhibit rooms on the first floor opened off each other, like some kind of rabbit warren. The rooms, cluttered with glass cases full of carefully tended artifacts, were roughly ten feet by twelve feet, with stifling air and low ceilings that amplified the claustrophobic atmosphere.

Side by side, Buffy and Faith worked their way through five rooms before they finally came to the last one, in the back corner of the building. Unlike the other exhibit rooms, this space appeared to be a workshop, with long, high tables against the walls and a variety of tools scattered across their surfaces. In the center of the cleared floor stood a humanoid figure made from several hundred pounds of limestone, with empty hollows where its eyes should have been and an open mouth stretching nearly all the way to the floor. The limestone had been splashed with blood, and a broken stone vessel of some sort lay at the statue's feet.

"I think we found our gateway," announced Buffy, nudging the broken cup with her toe. Crouching down, she ran a finger inside the rim of the vessel and then grimaced.

"Still wet?" Faith hazarded.

"Mostly dry. Just a little . . . sticky." She grimaced a second time and straightened up. At that moment, her phone began buzzing in her pocket. Balancing the phone and her stake, she answered it. "Hey, Spike. We've got the statue. Whatever Angelus and Drusilla wanted with it, it appears as though they've finished."

The vampire's voice carried in the quiet workshop, loud enough so that Faith could hear it, too. "Bloody fantastic. We found Weatherford in an office upstairs."

"Dead?" mouthed Faith to the other Slayer.

"He's dead," continued Spike. "Definitely Angelus's handiwork. Missing fingernails, arms and legs cut to shreds, throat slit . . . Looks like it took him a while to die. Winchester's on the phone with Brandt, calling in the bobbies to come process the scene, or whatever it is they do. You two find any signs of Angelus or Dru?"

"Other than the dead man and the blood ritual, nope." Buffy sounded a little worried. "Not so much as a peep."

"Doubt they'll be far. Angelus likes to gloat."

Faith snorted. "Ain't that the truth."

Shooting her a quick glance, the blonde sighed. "There's a big marble staircase at the front of the building. Meet us at the bottom?"

"We'll be there."

As she hung up the phone, Buffy turned to see Faith watching her. "What?"

The brunette Slayer raised her eyebrows. "You don't think it's worth checking every inch of this place from top to bottom?"

Buffy sighed for a second time. "Not really. You heard what Spike said – Angelus likes to gloat. He isn't going to be hiding in some corner waiting for us to find him. He'll come find us."

"Fair point."

* * *

"Brandt and his men should be here in twenty minutes," Dean announced flatly as Buffy and Faith rounded the final corner back into the main entryway. A dark shadow against the pale marble, his face was faintly illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the skylights far above in the top of the ceiling.

"Good." Faith tucked one of her stakes into her belt, momentarily relaxing. "Where's Spike and Blue?"

The hunter jerked his head in the direction of the large oaken double doors. "Stepped out. Spike said he was going to look for footprints leading away from this place, things like that." He did not sound convinced.

"You don't buy it?"

"Not really. Seemed more like he wanted to have a little chat with Illyria. Didn't realize they got along with each other that well."

Faith leaned against the stone balustrade and tossed her remaining stake back and forth from hand to hand. "Way Wesley used to tell it, she prefers Spike to Angel. 'Course, Wes was always her actual favorite, I think."

"Too bad he's not around now," said Buffy casually, her eyes following the arc of Faith's stake. "We could definitely use his help."

"Yeah." The brunette Slayer bit down on the inside of her cheek. "Too bad."

Realizing that her train of thought was not going to lead anywhere pleasant, Dean took the final two steps down the staircase, each bootstep thudding softly on the marble stone. He caught the stake in midair and twirled it over in his fingers, then presented Faith with the non-pointy end. "Let's go. They've had enough time to catch up, and we're not doing anything here."

With an acquiescing shrug, Faith pushed herself off the banister and reached once more for her second stake. "Aye-aye, captain," she mumbled just louder than a whisper.

"Hold on, guys." Buffy grabbed Faith by the wrist to stop her.

Faith glanced back at her skeptically. "What?"

"You smell that?"

Dean closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The scent was so faint that he could barely pick it up, but as he concentrated, a familiar acrid tang filled his nostrils. His green eyes sprang open, wide and startled. "Gasoline."

* * *

"What're you after here, Blue? Really?"

Illyria glared sulkily at the vampire at her elbow. As always, the blond half-breed was careless of her personal space, eager for answers and crowding closer than anything even distantly related to a mud monkey ever should. He was rude and impertinent, and one day, when he ceased to prove entertaining, she would rend him into six thousand infinitesimally small pieces and watch him blow away on the mildest breeze. Until then, however . . .

"I am no ally of Archaeus," she answered evasively.

The vampire pest was persistent. "No," he insisted. "There's got to be more to it than that."

"My motivations are none of your business," Illyria snarled as she cast her eyes across the muddy ground beside the museum's back service entrance. There were no footprints. Just as she had predicted. But their quarry was not far away. The air where Archaeus had been was troubled, the very molecules of nitrogen and oxygen gas disturbed by his presence. He and his spawn were close. She could feel it.

"They are if they're going to affect my chances of survival." Spike was not in the least bit intimidated. "If you're going to change your mind halfway through this thing and decide you like Angelus better'n us."

Summoning what little remained of her patience, Illyria counted to seven before she replied. "I will not change my mind," she said through gritted teeth.

"Why?"

"I could break your spine in half with a thought," she growled at him. "It would do you well to learn some respect, half-breed."

"Waste of time trying to teach me respect." The corners of Spike's mouth crooked upwards in a wry smile. "You know me, Bluebird. And I know you. Which is why I'm wondering what exactly it is that you're getting out of this."

The ancient demon eyed him suspiciously. "Beginnings and endings," she said at last. "What do you believe in, Spike?" His name fell like a vehement curse from her lips. "Who is your god?"

His curiosity growing, Spike inclined his head to the side. "What do you mean, Blue?"

"Beginnings and endings," Illyria repeated. "Beginnings and endings. Your Angel once spoke of the Powers That Be, believed they might help him restore justice and goodness to his universe. Believed that if he fulfilled their prophecy that they might restore his humanity."

She laughed, but there was little humor in it. "What do you believe in? Which of the innumerable human religions does your feeble soul cling to? God? Allah? Buddha? Kali? The Green Man? Mithras? Or do you simply believe in fates, in some nameless higher power – the ineffable, unreachable Powers That Be? Perhaps are you braver, wiser – do you believe in those who were first, those who watched and ruled even as you monkeys crawled your way onto your knees and strove through fire and blood to wrest the chains of inferiority off yourselves?"

"Does it matter?"

Illyria exhaled in frustration, and her shoulders slumped a half degree. "I suppose that it does not," she said after a long pause. The passion had leached away from her voice. "They exist, you know." Her tone was almost mournful. "In these horrible days, some are less powerful, others more so, but they all exist."

The Old One paused again and then continued, "I was there, Spike. I was _there_. At the beginning of beginnings when light and dark first separated. Perhaps I do not rule as I once did, but I am still Illyria. I was there at the beginning, and I shall be there at the ending. The proper ending."

"Ahhh. This have to do with that Apocalpyse, then? The one Winchester's got his tail feathers all bent up about?"

"He has role to play in the End of Days," admitted the god king. "Archaeus and his children would destroy him before that time comes. I will not allow this."

"So you have chosen a side." A new voice broke into their conversation, and three people materialized in the mouth of the closest alley.

Spike's still heart lurched uncomfortably in his chest as he gazed into the too-pale face of the woman he had loved for centuries. "Drusilla," he breathed, and then spat, "Angelus," as his grandsire followed Dru out of the alley.

"William," came the response, arrogant as always. "Sleeping with the Slayer again, are you? Tell me something: have you ever had a woman that I didn't have first?"

"Bastard," snarled Spike, and he launched himself at the older vampire, fangs bared and a stake gripped in his hand. Screw bringing the wanker in alive. He was going to end this, once and for all. Drusilla squealed in delight as her Spike and her Daddy collided in a torrent of blows and exclamations. She had thought such exciting times were gone forever.

High-pitched and distracting through the squealing was, it was the third figure that commanded Illyria's attention. Taller than Angelus by at least six inches, Archaeus had draped himself in the form of a mortal, albeit one fairer and more fey than most. Chin-length black hair draped severely over one luminescent gray eye. His brows were heavy and dark, and his full, sensual lips promised nothing but cruelty.

It had been his voice that spoke a minute before, and now he smirked down at Illyria. "I ought to have known." His voice dripped with condescension. "You always were something of a lapdog where the archangels were concerned."

The former god king was too busy frowning to listen to more than the tone of his voice. "What is this, Archaeus?" she snapped without a shred of tolerance, in much the same way that many a parent had demanded, 'What do you think you're wearing?' Illyria tossed her mane of hair, the blue and brown locks streaming back down around her deathly white face. "Do you hope to pass unnoticed by the mud monkeys? If so, you failed to observe mortal conventions of height. Or is this garb a way of seducing the feeble-minded into doing your bidding?"

"You also wear the form of a human," Archaeus countered. He moved closer, attempting to loom over her, but Illyria sidestepped him neatly.

"I dwell inside a vessel," Illyria corrected him. She borrowed a bit of knowledge from the Burkle's memory to help her illustrate her next point. "You, on the other hand, chose to appear like some immature human's vision of an incubus. What will be next, I wonder? Brooding music and traces of eyeliner? Enough of this." She lifted both hands, palms directed towards Archaeus.

Bursts of brilliant blue flame shot out from the center of her palms, and the demon was entirely engulfed. He screamed in agony as the fire danced over him. Too soon, their light was extinguished, and the demon pushed himself up to his feet. No longer disguised by magic, he was forced to assume his true form.

Ten feet tall, his humanoid body was skinless, leaving crimson muscle exposed to the night air, except for his hands, shoulders, head, and neck, which were crowned by an exoskeleton the color of tobacco-stained ivory. Spikes sprouted from each shoulder and from the top of his head. Archaeus opened a great mouth filled with rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth to leer at the former god king.

"Better," concluded Illyria approvingly. "We are old, you and I. It does not do to appear other than we are."

Dodging Angelus' latest punch, Spike gazed upward and muttered sarcastically, "Good goin', Blue. Good freaking going."

* * *

**June 18th, 2009, Museum of Sumerian Art, London, England, 12:14 a.m.**

"He's right." Buffy took another whiff. "That's gas."

"Wasn't here when we came in." Faith examined the floors carefully, but she did not see any evidence of spilled gasoline.

"No," Buffy agreed.

The brunette Slayer advanced on the front door and tried the handle. It was stuck fast. "Frak," she cursed, slamming her shoulder into the wood, which did not budge so much as an inch. Dean joined her, but still the door did not move. "Little help here, B?"

"Coming."

As Buffy took the few remaining steps across the foyer, the door to the basement stairs down the hall creaked open, and a short female vampire slunk into the room, a silver Zippo lighter held carelessly in one hand, a can of petrol dangling from the fingers of her other hand.

"Slayerrrrrsss," she growled through her fangs, drawing out the final two consonants. The vampire jerked her can so that it splashed gasoline on the entryway floor and halfway up the grand staircase.

"Time to go," said Buffy hastily. "On the count of three – one . . ."

"Two-three!" Faith yelled. They were running out of time. On three, both Slayers and the hunter crashed into the locked door, just as the female vampire smiled beatifically and hurled her lit Zippo onto the puddles of gasoline.

The lock broke, and they tumbled out onto the smooth stone porch. Dean went down on one knee, hard. Buffy and Faith each slipped an elbow beneath his armpits and hoisted him up to his feet, scrambling down the front steps as the first floor of the museum went up in tarry flames. When they had gotten a good twenty feet between themselves and the stairs, they stopped to breathe and to listen to the shouting echoing from behind the museum.

"What the hell was that?" a recognizable voice bellowed. "You're getting fat and slow, old man!"

"Spike," said Faith and Buffy in unison.

Dean shook himself free of the Slayers. "Run," he told the others. "I'll be right behind you." The women did not need telling twice. They had cleared the corner of the museum before Dean finished his sentence.

Sprinting after them towards the narrow strip of concrete that bordered the far side of the building, Dean prayed, "Castiel, if it so please you to move your feathered self down here and pitch in a hand, hop to it quadruple time."

The air around him suddenly blistered with heat, and a towering creature, all dark red limbs and ivory claws, appeared on the cement pathway six feet in front of him.

"That is _not_ Cass." The hunter skidded to a halt. He'd seen a fair amount in his twenty-plus years of getting his rear end kicked by everything from unquiet spirits to crossroads demons, but he had never, _ever_ seen anything quite this tall. Hell, it was practically Balrog-sized. He dodged a wild swipe from the monster's claws, nearly a foot long if they were an inch, and called out, "Cass!"

A wall of blue lightning sprang up between him and the monster, dancing and sparking and scorching the concrete.

"He will not come," said the emotionless voice of Illyria as the god king came to stand beside him. "Stop that, Archaeus," she added peevishly when the great red demon lashed out with his fists against the wall of flame. The fire wavered and flickered, but did not fall.

" _That's_ Archaeus?" Dean gasped. He had enough sense to duck behind Illyria while he caught his breath.

"Indeed," replied the Old One shortly. Icy blue eyes narrowing, she crooked her fingers into claws. A hail of bright daggers exploded from the wall of fire, slashing into Archaeus's arms and sides. He howled.

Unable to let go of his earlier idea, the hunter persisted, "Where's Castiel?"

Frowning, Illyria unleashed yet another rain of daggers against her opponent. "I sent him away."

"You _what_?"

"I have enough work to do without his meddling. Begone, Archaeus," she commanded, her tone equal parts authority and irritation.

"You lack the power to command me, Illyria," snarled the demon.

"Perhaps." Illyria stretched out an arm behind her, her fingers scraping against the collar of Dean's jacket. As they closed on his lapel, she yanked the hunter towards her and placed a hand over his heart. A brilliant white light flowed from his skin into hers, and Dean collapsed onto his knees, his vision fading in and out.

Flecks of white lighting arcing from fingertip to fingertip, the demon smiled. "Then again," purred Illyria, "perhaps not. I believe the proper phrase here is 'Bugger off.'" She raised that hand, and the white lightning leapt out at Archaeus, striking him directly in the chest.

Doubling over in pain, Archaeus staggered backwards and then vanished.

"That will do to begin with." Removing her hand from its place over the man's heart, Illyria set him on his feet. When Dean continued to sway, his face pale and sweating, the Old One decided she might as well go the whole way and swung him effortlessly up and over her shoulder.

"Ungh," the hunter groaned. "Did you just kill –"

"He will be back," said Illyria firmly, setting out towards the back of the building and the shouting still emanating from it, keeping a painfully strong grip on Dean's legs. "Unfortunately, if I had borrowed enough power to destroy him, it would have killed you as well."

Dean's forehead bounced off of the leather armor covering the ancient demon's back. "Why did you let that stop you?"

Her reply took little consideration. "Because Michael needs you alive," she answered seriously. As a stray thought of the Burkle's bled its way into her consciousness, Illyria added, "And I do not think he is the only one."


	89. Long Ago and Far Away, pt 13

* * *

**June 18th, 2009, Museum of Sumerian Art, London, England, 12:20 a.m.**

"Cass!"

Faith and Buffy were almost to the back of the museum when Dean called out for his guardian angel. In less than a fraction of a second, the brunette Slayer started to run back in the direction from whence they had come. A pair of cold hands gripped her shoulders and stopped her.

"I will handle this," Illyria promised, blue eyes locked on brown. "He will be safe. Do not let distractions keep you from Angelus."

"Come on, Faith," urged Buffy.

Hoping and praying that this would not come back to bite her, Faith turned again and raced to the blonde's side. They sprinted the last few yards to the corner of the granite building and then dropped down to a walk. There was no need to run now.

Spike lay facedown in the gravel and mud that lined the rear driveway of the museum. Smirking gleefully, Drusilla straddled his back. The shredded hem of her long white dress was stained nearly black with dirt. She stared smugly at the Slayers as they approached. Angelus leaned casually against the chain link security fence beside the driveway. Hands clasped over his stomach, fingers laced together, he grinned.

"Wondered when you would show up. I see you missed my little welcoming present. Pity." He pushed off the fence, palms up in an unconvincing display of friendliness. "It's cold out. You could use a little warming up. Oh, well." The vampire advanced on them. "I guess Slayer en flambé's back off the menu, then."

Buffy's chin quivered with fury. "Angelus."

His cold stare fixed solely on her. "Hello, lover." His tone was a twisted caress. "Wasn't sure you'd show."

"And miss the chance to shove you back inside your cage?" The blonde shook her head. "Not a chance in hell."

One ear focused on the barrage of taunts, the other listening intently for any noise coming from the cement pathway where she had last seen Dean and Illyria, Faith rolled her eyes. "Look, I'm as much a fan of the insult parade as anybody, but could we move this along? A little less conversation, a little more action, maybe?"

Angelus did not require a second invitation. He sprang at Buffy, catching the side of her knee with a sweeping kick and knocking her to the ground. Faith charged him in retaliation. As long as Drusilla was content to run her hands through an unconscious Spike's hair and play the excited onlooker, that was five by five with her. She'd deal with Angelus first. If Willow ever got the ritual of re-ensoulment working, her opportunities to punch the living daylights out of Angelus would be severely curtailed.

Her first blow, a wild right haymaker, passed over the vampire's head, and he grabbed her wrist. Tugging her against his body, Angelus gazed down at both Slayers and gloated, "Speaking of action, I've always kinda wanted to try a three-way with you two. Whaddya say, Faithy?" He jerked her even closer. "Want to throw down?"

Faith kneed him solidly in the groin and twisted herself free. She danced away five steps as Buffy rose to her feet, the left knee of her skinny jeans scraped open and oozing blood. Flashing each other brief glances, the Slayers turned as one to face Angelus.

This quick exchange did not escape the vampire's notice. "Or is it that you'd rather do each other? In which case, go ahead. Don't mind me. Dru and I'll just want. Isn't that right, Dru?"

Drusilla stood, leaving her once-precious William. "That would be very naughty," she half-crooned, half-hissed. "Wicked. Wrong. Delicious."

"Victorian hang-ups, you know." Angelus shrugged in a what-can-you-do sort of gesture. "Practically impossible to get rid of."

"Not for lack of trying, obviously," snapped Buffy.

"Girl's got enough crazy in her to power a whole asylum all by herself," Faith added. It was a remark Dean had made, once upon a time. Since he was not there, the Slayer felt honor-bound to say it for him. She eyed Spike, who had just shuddered from side to side. Time for full-on distraction mode. "Sounds like somebody's been watching too much porn. What's the matter, Angelus? Drusilla not enough to do it for you anymore?"

She ducked to the side as Drusilla ran at her and then extended her left foot to trip the vampire neatly. Drusilla's long nails hooked into the muscle of the Slayer's forearm, piercing the skin and dragging her downwards as it was Faith's turn to fall to the earth.

Gritting her teeth, Faith used Dru's grip on her as a pivot point. Shoulder jammed into the mud, the Slayer twisted around one hundred and eighty degrees to smash her boot into Drusilla's chin. With a shriek, the vampire released Faith's arm, choosing instead to rake her claw-like fingernails across the woman's face. Faith swore.

While this tussling was going on beside them, Buffy looked steadfastly into Angelus's saturnine features, her stomach clenching itself into knots. "You have my full attention."

"Funny thing is, somehow I still can't decide." He edged to the right, and Buffy moved to the left, maintaining the distance between them.

"What do you have to decide?"

"Which of you I want dead, and which of you I want on her knees – permanently."

"You're sick," Buffy spat.

Angelus laughed. "Oh no, baby. I'm the same as your precious little Angel. Just with the training wheels off."

From her current position atop a writhing, caterwauling Drusilla, Faith yelled, "Buffy! You can't talk him to death," before the vampire knotted her fingers into the base of Faith's ponytail and hauled her back down into the mud.

"That's your trouble, isn't it?" taunted Angelus as he and the blonde Slayer continued to circle around one another. "You can't kill me. You're still trying to save Angel."

"Among other things." Back on his feet, Spike let fly with one of his fists, his knuckles crashing into Angelus's nose with a delightful crunch of breaking cartilage. "Wanker."

Nowhere near finished, the younger vampire crossed to the tangle of limbs and cursing that was Drusilla and Faith. He threw an arm around his former lover's waist and pulled her out of the scrum, his other arm going around her neck to compress her trachea in the crook of his elbow. "That was rude, pet," he hissed, stroking her dark hair and ignoring her struggles. "I'm the one who chokes you, my black plum. Not the other way 'round."

As Drusilla slumped limply against Spike, Angelus realized that the odds were quickly tipping out of his favor. The vampire cast his eyes about the darkened driveway in search of a conveniently abandoned two by four. When that proved fruitless, he settled for eliminating the space between himself and Buffy, who was watching Spike and Drusilla with a nauseated expression. He clamped down on a pressure point on her shoulder and then knocked her to the gravel with a furious blow to the jaw.

Before Buffy could recover, he caught Faith in the stomach with his boot and sent her crashing into the security fence. And then it was only him and Drusilla and William. The blond vampire's blue eyes widened in mild panic.

Angelus delivered an open-palmed strike to the side of Spike's skull. Had he been human, this would have fractured his temporal bone, severed the artery that coursed there, and resulted in his death. Since he was already dead, all it did was make Spike lose both his balance and his hold on Drusilla.

"This's been real fun." The vampire raised Drusilla up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and darted away down the closest alley, his voice drifting back along the night air towards them. "This isn't over yet, girls. Not by a long shot." He shifted into song. "There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun . . ."

* * *

**June 18th, 2009, Picadilly Circus, London, England, 12:05 a.m.**

Willow inspected her handiwork carefully. Almost perfect chalk circle? Check. White candles positioned on the outside edge of the circle at North, South, East and West? Check. Weasel bones and a relic from a lesser saint? Check. All the right herbs in all the right places, including the fennel? Check. Orb of Thesulah from Faith's box of tampons? Check. The redhead jingled the sacred pebbles in her left hand and turned to Nadira. "Okay. I think we're ready to go."

"All right." The curly-haired Slayer pulled one of the barstools out from under the kitchen table and climbed up onto it. She laid her hands on her knees, palms upward, and hummed softly, her voice rising and falling in what Willow vaguely recognized as a Gregorian chant. Her eyelids falling closed, Nadira continued to hum until she drifted away into a trance. After fifty seconds or so, she opened her eyes. A milky-white film covered her irises and lpupils, and when she spoke, it was in a far deeper voice than the witch had yet heard her use. "Begin."

"Quod perdition est, invenietur." Willow gently tossed the pebbles into the chalk circle and then commenced with the rest of the spell.

"Nici mort, nici al fiinţei,  
te invoc spirit al trecerii.  
Gods, bind him, cast his heart from the evil realm.  
Let him know the pain of humanity, gods.  
Reach your wizened hands to me. Give me the sword...  
Te implor, Doamne; nu ignoră aceasta rugăminte.  
Lăsa orbită să fie vasul care-i vă transportă sufletul la el.  
Este scris, aceasta putere este dreptul poporul meu de a conduce,  
Redă trupului ce separe omul de animal.  
Aşa să fie cu ajutorul acestui magic glob de cristal.  
Aşa să fie! Aşa să fie!  
Acum! Acum!"

As had happened earlier that morning – yesterday morning, now – the Orb glowed a bright white as the incantation neared its finishing point. But then, just as earlier, streaks of red flowed into the Orb. This time, knowing what to expect, Willow retreated into the living room before the globe could explode. She darted back into the kitchen to grab Nadira by the arm and tug her out of the blast radius.

Just in time. This Orb of Thesulah exploded exactly as the last one had done. Flinching, the witch ducked behind the back of one of the black leather couches. One hand instinctively covered the bandage on her forehead. When the others returned, she really needed to get that changed. Willow straightened to find Nadira standing by the other couch and shaking herself.

Noticing the other woman's gaze, Nadira smiled. Her eyes had returned to their normal brown. "Diagnostic check complete," she announced as she flopped down onto the couch, kicking her legs up over the arm.

"Let me hear it, then. What's throwing a monkey wrench into my spellworks?"

"First off, I want to thank you for not being one of those super sloppy spellcasters. Honestly, I was not sure if watching the Orb on another plane was going to work – not if you were one of those practitioners who leaked their own magic like a rusted-out sieve," admitted the Slayer frankly. "But you've got excellent control, so that was not much of an issue."

"Thanks," mumbled Willow, thinking of how hard she had studied to achieve that control. "Did you find anything?"

Nadira refused to be hurried. "The ritual itself is interesting. I don't think I've ever come across an incantation with scattered bits of three languages. Have you tried leaving the English out? It seems like the intention is communicated more elegantly in the Romanian."

The witch scrunched up her nose. "I've considered it," she said thoughtfully. "Along with about five thousand other modifications. I'd really like to get rid of the 'experience a moment of perfect happiness, lose your soul' escape clause."

"Hah. That would be nice. We all would breathe easier. But maybe we should leave that for a time when we don't have a concurrent Angelus problem." Nadira kicked her ankles aimlessly against the arm of the couch. "So, while I was in the trance, I noticed two things. One, you are definitely summoning a soul. Can't tell you for sure if it is Angel's soul or not – I've never gotten that up close and personal with him, and I never really want to be. But the second entity, the one that's stopping you, that one I recognized. Had the exact same feel to it as the nasty that was all up in me the other day."

Willow sighed. "Archaeus."

"Exactly."

"I kind of suspected that," mumbled the witch in disappointed tones. "Kind of hoped that I was wrong, though. So what do you think? Do we have to eliminate the big boss problem before we can get Angel back?"

"Interesting question. I mean, that would certainly be one way of doing it. But I'm wondering if we might be able to cowboy through it another way."

Settling down onto the empty couch, Willow hooked her fingers around one knee. "Go on."

Nadira leaned forward. "What if he's distracted?" she said speculatively. "I mean, really distracted. That did not feel like some kind of reflex protection put in place in case someone attempted restoring Angel's soul. It was specific, full of intention."

"So if Archaeus is too distracted to notice that the ritual is taking place . . ."

"Then I think we might have what's referred to as a window of opportunity."

"How distracted are we talking?" Willow mused.

The Slayer grinned. "Distracted. Like bleeding, fighting for his life distracted."

"We should call Buffy."

Swinging her legs back down to the floor, Nadira agreed, "Probably. You got another one of those Orb things?"

"Three of them," the witch informed her. "Faith still has one in her freezer somewhere - don't ask – and I had Sotheby's deliver me an extra two this afternoon."

The other woman blinked in confusion. "Sotheby's?" she asked incredulously. "As in the auction house?"

"They have a reputation for procuring occult things with remarkable speed and discretion. Well, they do if you know their chief financial officer," Willow amended. "She's quite a lovely woman, really. And since this ritual is very obscure – and I mean more obscure than the biography of that other starting member of the Beatles – anyway, most people just use their Orbs of Thesulah as pretty paper weights. So they're not actually that expensive."

"And what – you were too lazy to leave the flat and hunt them down yourself?"

Willow's cheeks flamed. "Well, Buffy was being all freaked out and overprotective, like she always gets when Angelus is loose. But mostly it was because I hadn't seen Sofia in a couple of years, and she wanted to make the delivery in person."

"Too much information." The Slayer got to her feet and held out a hand to pull Willow up off of her couch. "Sounds like we've got three more bites at this apple, then. I'll go clean up the disaster in the kitchen. You want to see if you can get ahold of the hunting party and pass along the distraction memo?"

"You got it." Willow rolled up her sleeves, not that she needed to for any particular reason. It was more about the spirit of the thing. "Let's do this."

* * *

**June 18th, 2009, Museum of Sumerian Art, London, England, 12:30 a.m.**

"There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun . . ." Angelus's voice trailed away as he disappeared into the shadows of the alley.

Her fingers hooked through the links of the fence, Faith dragged herself back to her feet. "I don't frakking think so," she growled. The Slayer glanced from one side to the next, checking in on the others. While Buffy was still struggling upright, Spike had one hand pressed to the side of his face and murder in his eyes.

"I really hate him," the vampire snarled, and he spat a gob of blood-tinged saliva onto the gravel.

"I doubt that you are alone in that sentiment." Illyria rounded the corner of the building and deposited a much less pale Dean on the ground. "Archaeus has yet to return?" she asked mildly, taking in the scene of bruised and bleeding White Hats. "And you three could not defeat two vampires? I begin to wonder if I have backed the wrong horse."

Faith ignored her. Instead, she scanned the hunter from the scuffed toes of his workman boots to the mussed tips of his light brown hair. "Dean, you okay?"

He nodded. "Five by five."

Eyes widening, Buffy hissed to Spike, "He says it, too?"

"Guess so."

Barely audible now, Angelus's voice floated back to them a second time. "My mother was a tailor. She sewed my new blue jeans . . ."

Dean blinked in surprise. "Is that –"

"Yes," Faith growled in response. "That's exactly what you think it is." She shook herself like a dog clearing water out of its coat and tugged the collar of her leather jacket higher to cover the gauze still taped to her throat. "And I'm getting frakking sick of it."

Satisfied that her team was mostly in one piece, the Slayer threw herself forward and charged towards the alley after Angelus. It was long past time to settle this.

* * *

The stars were screaming, and the world refused to swing into focus. She batted halfheartedly at the steel arms that held her, and they forced her against a wall of cold brick.

"Can you run?" demanded her Daddy curtly.

"The stars," she replied dreamily, swaying her hips from side to side.

"Kinda need a more coherent answer than that, Dru." Daddy's cruel fingers gripped the back of her neck and pinched hard. "Can. You. Run?"

She pushed him aside and grinned. "That is not the question," she hummed, racing towards the faint lights at the end of the alleyway. She could smell the river. Water and fish and motor oil. The Thames must not be far away.

Daddy caught up with her easily. "What is the question, then?"

Her grin widened, and she inclined her head towards his. Although there was no person in sight to hear them, she lowered her voice regardless. The night always had a thousand ears, and it did not do to be careless. "We shall have company," she informed him.

"Knew that already. The question, Dru. What's the question?"

She reached the wide street at the mouth of the alley and turned left without hesitation. "The question is if they will follow too closely and ruin the surprise."

"And what surprise would that be?"

" _His_."

* * *

Dean chased after Faith. Illyria, Spike, and Buffy followed hot on his heels. The brunette Slayer seemed driven by some internal purpose. She barreled down the alley, barely aware of her friends. Quickly glancing left and right at each cross-street, she did not deviate from her course until the alley ended on a wide street along the banks of the Thames. With three lanes on each side of the road and bright street lights, it made it easy to visualize the intersection with Queen Street fifty yards ahead and the continuation of Queen Street onto the Southwark Bridge, closed for cons truction, not far beyond that.

Squinting, the hunter could make out two small figures sprinting past the 'no entry' barriers along the bridge. Apparently Faith had seen the same thing, for she dropped her head and kicked it into an even higher gear. Dean watched as the figures came to a halt in the middle of the bridge. His guts twisted. This smelled like another set-up.

A muffled electronic tune sounded from behind him. "Hello?" panted Buffy into her cell phone. "Will? Not really a good time right now. Oh….." Her voice faded into silence as she listened to the witch. "Okay, thanks. We'll do our best."

"What was that about?" Spike prompted softly beside her.

"Willow." Buffy raised her voice so that it reached Faith a few feet ahead of her. "Will and Nadira tried the Ritual of Restoration."

"Something's telling me that it didn't work," muttered Dean under his breath.

"And?" wondered Faith.

"It didn't work," Buffy admitted, "but they know what's been interfering. Archaeus. They say if we keep him distracted, they might be able to force the ritual to go through. Which would be easier if we knew where he was."

A streak of scarlet light flashed on the bridge immediately behind the small figures of Angelus and Drusilla, and a much greater shadow loomed against the already dark night.

"That was convenient," commented Dean as the group reached Queen Street.

"Just as long as it's not a coincidence," growled Faith, turning right onto Queen Street. She slowed to an easy jog. There was no need to use up all her energy in the chase, not when her quarry was obviously waiting halfway along the bridge ahead. "I hate coincidences."

"No such animal," agreed Spike. "We got a battle plan, ladies?"

"Slayer Smash?" Dean suggested.

Illyria snorted in exasperation. "I will take care of Archaeus," she said darkly. "I believe I can keep him sufficiently distracted for your purposes."

"Okay. Then Spike, Dean, you two can take on Drusilla. Faith and I've got something of a score to settle with Angelus."

No more discussion was needed. The others all nodded their acceptance of Buffy's plan. Since they might as well walk with traffic as against it, they stalked purposefully up the pedestrian walkway on the left side of the bridge, the two Slayers in the lead and Illyria bringing up the rear. Buffy pulled out her phone and quickly sent off a text to Willow informing her that serious distraction was imminent.

At the top of Southwark bridge, the two groups came to a halt. Five on one side, three on the other, they stared at each other for a long moment. Still wearing his true form, Archaeus stood silently behind his children. Angelus was singing again, the words deceptively soft, his menacing gaze pointed directly at Faith. For some inexplicable reason, his voice was much better than Angel's. Faith shoved that intrusive thought aside and narrowed her eyes.

"Oh, mother, tell your children not to do what I have done. Spend your lives in sin and misery in the House of the Rising Sun."

"You done?" demanded the brunette Slayer at the end of the verse, crossing her arms over her stomach. "'Cause, frankly, this is starting to get a little old."

Stake in hand, she left the line of her friends, walking towards Angelus. She halted six feet away from him, just out of immediate arm's reach. Slowly, the Slayer inclined her head to the side, baring her neck and the bandage there. Faith reached up with trembling fingers and eased the tape away from her skin until the gauze was free. She gently tugged the bloodied bandage off from where it clung to her neck. Crumpling it, she then stuffed the material into her pocket.

"Come on, Angelus," she taunted. "New Orleans is a thing of the past. Why don't you stop with the musical number and finish what you started?"

Angelus shoved his hands deep within his pockets and rocked backwards on his heels. He inclined his head to one side. "I thought you liked New Orleans," the vampire mocked her, smiling just enough to bare his fangs. "All those happy memories. You and your boyfriend and your little dog - closest thing you've ever had to a family, isn't that right, Faithy?"

Eyes flicking from the smirking vampire to the great red demon flanking him, Faith gritted her teeth. "You can shut the hell up." Unsheathing the silver dagger at her hip, she covered the last few feet between herself and Angelus. She tapped the tip of her knife against the V of pale skin bared by the collar of his tight-fitting shirt.

At the same moment, Spike and Dean moved forward. Spike dodged left, and Dean slipped right beneath the outstretched claws of Archaeus, and they darted around the demon's back to close in on Drusilla from behind. The vampire wrapped his hands around her wrists, yanking her backwards, while Dean tackled her at the waist and knocked her to the hard cement.

Slowly, Buffy crept to the edge of the bridge and began sneaking along the pedestrian walkway there. Angelus briefly glanced her way and then returned his attention to the silver blade poking into his sternum, which had been joined by a stake that pressed against his ribs.

"I'm starting to get bored with this," he announced. "We both know you're not going to use that." The vampire drew his hands into fists and raised them inside the circle of Faith's arms and weapons, then shoved her forearms apart with the backsides of his wrists, effectively freeing himself. He jutted his chin out in the direction of the stake.

Pivoting, he lashed out with his elbow and caught an approaching Buffy on the forehead, sending her back down to her knees.

"You know, this is really getting too easy," Angelus complained, as Illyria and Archaeus launched themselves into the air, meeting in a swirl of scarlet and indigo above their heads. He ignored the three-way tussle currently going on between Drusilla, Spike, and Dean. Anticipating Faith's right hook, he caught her fist in his palm and squeezed, crushing her knuckles. "Wanna know what I think the problem is?"

"What?" She decided to play along and distract him while Buffy took a moment to recover.

"I've been raising the stakes, but you're still not in the game, lover." Angelus leaned down to whisper in her ear, "Made me wonder . . . what was it gonna take?"

Faith slammed her left fist solidly down onto his bicep, causing him to release her hand. The vampire backed away before she could deliver any further damage.

"But don't worry," he added, gloating. "I figured it out. Hey, boss!"

At the pre-arranged signal, Archaeus swooped down from the sky. He dropped like a stone, directly over the howling melee of blows and swearing that contained two vampires and the hunter. His ivory claws easily parted the three bodies until they encountered his target.

Great black leathery wings sprouted from the ridges alongside his spine. They flapped twice, and then Archaeus rose back into the air, a motionless body clutched in his needle sharp claws.

"Dean!" The word was torn, raw and guttural, from Faith's throat. When her hands reached automatically for her crossbow and encountered nothing, the Slayer swore. Of all the days to leave the damn thing at home.

Angelus's hand wrapped around the base of her neck and squeezed. Choking, Faith clawed at him in an attempt to free herself, her eyes still locked on Archaeus and Dean. It was too dark. She couldn't see if he was moving or breathing or bleeding.

Enjoying her distraction, the vampire tightened his grip. "See, Faithy? It's easy," he whispered, his breath unpleasantly cool against her skin. "You just find a pressure point and apply pressure." His hold on her throat tightened a second time. "All there is to it."

Buffy launched herself at the vampire, slamming her closed fists into his kidneys in a series of a half dozen blows. Angelus stumbled forwards and dropped Faith, who dragged herself along the pavement and massaged her neck. It was difficult to breathe.

"Silence," Archaeus commanded in a deep voice that echoed off the steel of the bridge. "Cease your struggles, or the man dies."

"Put the vessel down, Archaeus," warned Illyria as she landed on the pavement near Faith. A sphere of blue flame danced lightly in the air above each of her palms.

"Shall I put him here?" The great black wings beat again, and Arachaeus flew away from the bridge so that there was nothing beneath him but fifty feet of empty air and the cold, dark water of the Thames.

Her pulse thudding heavily in her ears, Faith pushed herself into a crouch and made a couple of quick crab-steps in the direction of the demon.

"Return the Michael sword to me," the god king ordered. She strode quickly after Faith. "I will not ask you a third time."

"And if I do not?"

Archaeus had flown too far away for the brunette Slayer to make out his features, but she could hear the smirk in his voice. She was not a bad swimmer. If Dean fell, she could dive off the side, keep her head, tow him to shore. Faith struggled to ignore the cynical voice in the back of her head that reminded her it would be nearly impossible to find anyone once they disappeared beneath the surface of the Thames. "Illyria, do something, g-ddamn you!" she hissed, moving even closer to the edge of the bridge.

"If you wish." The Old One set her cold hand against the Slayer's chest.

"What on -" Words failed Faith as her world faded to nothing but blinding pain. White light streamed from her chest into Illyria, and then the Slayer collapsed, first to her knees and then onto her stomach. Her cheek rested on the asphalt, and her eyelids drifted shut.

Illyria lifted her hand, which brimmed again with lightning. The ancient demon rose into the air, supporting herself by some unseen magical means. She flew out over the water and came to a halt at five yards' distance from Archaeus. Extending her empty hand in the other demon's direction, she demanded, "Give me the vessel."

The corners of Archaeus's mouth tipped upwards in an cruel smile. "I think not." Retracting his claws, he released the hunter to tumble through the air towards the waiting embrace of the river below.

"Frak!" came Spike's startled call from the bridge as Dean fell, followed by more commotion as Buffy resumed her barrage of blows against Angelus.

All of this was noted by Illyria and quickly passed over. She looked up from the Michael sword's descent to meet Archaeus's smile with one of her own, even more chilling.

"I was hoping you might try that," she confessed. A jet of lightning shot out from her hand and straight into Archaeus.

Illyria had made sure to take enough energy from Faith to ensure that her opponent was well and truly distracted. Unlike her previous attack, this blast of lightning widened as the seconds passed, thickening until it had charred a hole nearly a foot in diameter in the middle of the demon's abdomen. The god king whistled in appreciation of her own work; she could see the far-off lights of the busier London districts through the hole in Archaeus's guts.

The cry of pain that accompanied this was loud enough and strong enough to send the five combatants remaining on the bridge back to their knees, hands clasped over their ears. Archaeus's wings flapped once more, and then he lost his balance and tumbled down towards the water.

Satisfied with her distraction, Illyria twisted around in the air and dove after Dean Winchester. She was forty feet behind him when he struck the oily surface of the Thames. Still not disheartened, she simply accelerated her own course, piercing the water and continuing downwards.

Although the Thames was murky and dark, she did not need more than the light provided by her own glowing hands to see. The muddy water had slowed her target somewhat, and she scissor-kicked her way down until her hands latched onto the back of his leather jacket.

Illyria reversed course and kicked her way back up to the air above. The unconscious hunter held tightly in one arm, she broke the surface just as Archaeus smashed into the water thirty yards away. Treading water, the god king waited out the aftershocks from his giant splash and then began swimming her way to the closet bank.

"Is he alive?" Buffy asked Spike worriedly, rising to her feet. Blood trickled down from the inner curve of her ears.

Spike, who was also bleeding, shook his head. "Not a clue." He glanced behind her to check on the other Slayer. "Faith's still down, too."

Taken entirely by surprise by the fall of her master, Drusilla wobbled from her kneeling position in the center of the bridge. She clutched her earlobes to feel the liquid dripping from them. The vampire screamed when she saw the red blood on her white hands.

As always, however, Angelus tended to be a bit more resilient. He licked his own blood off the tips of his fingers, and grinned. Now there was no one left to rush his work, and he could take his own sweet time. "Spike, you can step out of the way now. Mommy and Daddy need to have a little talk."

He swaggered towards Buffy and then jerked to a halt as his eyes and mouth flared with a pure white light. The vampire crumpled to the ground as Drusilla began to screech, her voice so piercing that Buffy covered her ears a second time.

"Gone!" wailed Drusilla. "Gone!" She gathered her long skirts in her arms and ran away down the further side of the bridge, towards the opposite bank and the languid ripples that designated Archaeus's slow progress across the river.

"We should follow her," Buffy said in resignation as the vampire's pale dress was swallowed up in the night.

Spike stepped around her to bend down over the motionless Faith. He felt for a pulse along her wrist and then straightened up. "She's alive," he announced, lifting the Slayer into his arms and shifting her so that her weight was more evenly distributed.

The vampire nodded with his head to the closer bank of the Thames, where Illyria had gotten Dean out of the water and up onto the edge of the shore and was wading out herself. Then he looked back at the still form of Angelus on the concrete. "We don't have the manpower to chase after Dru tonight," he said, beginning a slow walk along the bridge towards Illyria.

Angelus pushed himself up onto his elbows and raised his head, his eyes wide and confused. "Buffy?" he gasped.

"Angel?" said Buffy carefully. She dropped into a crouch beside him and met the vampire's gaze, searching his face for any signs of the demon within.

"What . . . what happened?"

Buffy sighed and helped Angel back up to his feet. This explanation was going to take a while.

* * *

Illyria waited until Spike had approached to make the declaration, "They should survive."

Raising his eyebrows, the vampire deposited his unconscious burden beside the still-prone man. "You sure about that, Blue?" he asked rhetorically, going down onto one knee to check Dean for a pulse.

The hunter was choking and gasping for air, so Spike rolled him over onto one side. About half a cup of nasty-smelling water came spilling out of Dean's mouth, and his eyes fluttered open as he struggled to breathe.

"Easy there." Spike clapped a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. "You're going to be okay." Stepping away, he went on to address Illyria, "You ever think about maybe taking a first-aid class?" he said as inoffensively as he could manage, surreptitiously lifting a heavy fist-sized chunk of concrete from among the debris littering the bank.

"Faith?" mumbled Dean in between coughs.

Illyria frowned thoughtfully at him. "Her strength is exhausted, but she should wake in a few minutes."

"Right." While the god king was occupied surveying the hunter, Spike slipped up behind her. He brought the concrete smashing down against the top of her skull, and Illyria went down like a sack of potatoes, her eyes rolling back into her head.

Supporting an uncoordinated Angel around the waist, Buffy scrambled the last few feet across the rocky shore to reach them. "What the hell did you just do?" she demanded, her voice soaring an octave higher with worry.

"Since being knocked out was what brought the Bluebird to the surface, I was thinking that knocking her out again might give Fred a chance to take the reins," Spike explained. He tapped Faith's cheek gently with the palm of his hand. The Slayer moaned. "She shouldn't be much longer now."

Dean took the vampire's hand and allowed him to help him into a sitting position. "Which one?"

The Slayer answered that question all on her own. "Ughh," she groaned, fighting her way through the thick pea soup that filled her brain. "G-d, I'm never doing that again." Faith rolled over onto her stomach and slowly pushed herself first to her knees and then up to her feet. She swayed where she stood, and Spike steadied her at the elbow.

"Thanks," mumbled Faith. She took in Buffy and Angel, the unconscious body of Illyria, and Dean. "You okay, cowboy?"

"Five by five."

"Good." Faith glanced back at Angel a second time. If prompted, she wouldn't have been able to put her finger on it, but there was just something intrinsically different there that told her Angelus had left the building.

The Slayer looked away as the woman at her feet stirred and the blue slowly began leaching out of her hair. Eventually, the woman's fawn-colored eyes opened and she whispered, "Faith?"

"Who'm I talking to?" asked the Slayer without heat. "Who's in charge right now?"

"It's me. It's Fred."

Faith believed her. Illyria would never bother to lie about something like that. "Good." She nodded to Spike, who left the Slayer and helped first Fred and then Dean to their feet.

When everyone was standing, Faith glanced one more time at each of the others until finally her eyes landed back on Dean. "Come on," she said quietly, getting out her phone to call a taxi. "Time to go home."


	90. Long Ago and Far Away, pt 14

* * *

**June 18th, 2009, Picadilly Circus, London, England, 2:30 a.m.**

"Oh my goodness – are you all all right?" babbled Willow as the front door to the flat opened and her weary friends trooped in. Spike was supporting Dean, and Buffy had one arm around Faith's waist. The brunette Slayer wobbled on her feet, unsteady. Buffy deposited her on the couch and turned to her best friend.

"Mission accomplished, Will," she said quietly, looking back towards Angel and Fred, who were emerging from the hallway.

Willow met Angel's eyes. "All good?" she asked him with mild apprehension.

"All good. Thank you." Angel surveyed the room awkwardly. When the silence became too much to bear, he added, "Is Nadira okay?"

The Slayer in question poked her head in from the kitchen. "Stellar, thanks for asking. Not sure if you've noticed, but you all look like sh-t, by the way."

Faith used the arm of the couch to get back into a standing position. "Thanks for that, Nadira," she said dryly. "We had noticed." She turned to the hunter next to her on the couch. Dean's head was tilted back, his skin clammy and pale.

"I'm getting this guy de-Thamesed," the Slayer announced, rapping her knuckles on his shoulder. "Can we just leave all the big kumbayaya powwow stuff for tomorrow?" Without waiting for a response, she gave the hunter a hand up and started walking slowly towards her bedroom.

Once she had a locked wooden door safely between her and the majority of her guests, Faith exhaled deeply. Her entire body ached from head to toe, and thinking about anything other than her exhaustion required extreme effort. Bending over the cedar chest at the foot of her bed, the Slayer fished in the dark for her empty laundry basket and carried it into the master bathroom.

Dean had gotten there ahead of her and already turned on the lights. Faith set the laundry basket on the bathroom counter and placed the back of her hand against his forehead. The hunter blinked at her. "I don't have a fever."

"No," agreed Faith, "but if you don't get out of those wet clothes, you're going to wake up with one."

"Who died and made you queen?" Dean grumbled, but he began fumbling with the buttons on his plaid shirt anyway.

Impatient, the Slayer stepped over onto the fluffy bathroom rug to help him. "You sure you're okay?" she queried softly, starting with the lower buttons on his shirt. "I've taken a dip or two in that river myself, but never with that much of a high dive."

Their hands met on the middle button, and Dean cleared his throat to indicate that he could finish by himself. Faith moved back to the counter and folded her arms across her chest, watching as he tossed first his plaid shirt and then his jeans into the laundry basket. When the hunter had stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt, she slipped back out into her room to find her own pajamas.

The patter of the shower ended a few minutes later, and Faith gave it another forty-five seconds before pushing her way back into the bathroom, Dean's duffel bag in hand. The hunter had a towel slung around his waist and was frowning at his own appearance in the mirror.

"Good God," the Slayer whispered, taking in the angry red slashes scored across his chest and back. Most of them were fairly shallow, but they still had to sting like Hell. "Nadira wasn't wrong; you really do look like sh-t."

Dean did not rise to the forced attempt at humor. "First-aid kit?" he prompted as she dropped his bag onto the counter.

"It's on my desk." Faith bustled away and returned to find that the hunter had exchanged his towel for a pair of clean boxers. She snapped open the clasp on the kit and reached inside for the largest tube of antibiotic ointment that she could find.

"Slather it on," said Dean. He closed his eyes and tightened his jaw as she worked, her hands gently skimming across the claw marks to cover them in the ointment. Then she wrapped gauze around his torso and secured it with tape. Faith handed him a t-shirt out of his duffel and went to fasten the lid on the first-aid kit.

The hunter stopped her. "Hold it. Let me re-do your neck, first."

After that was taken care of, they brushed their teeth in weary silence and crawled into bed. Faith tugged the down comforter up to her chin and then scooted towards the center of her mattress. For tonight, given the still too-cold temperature of the man's skin, she could dispense with a little of her personal space. She settled against Dean in order to share a little body heat and tried to relax.

"Remember earlier?" mumbled her bed-partner, his knee knocking into her shin.

"Which earlier?" Faith responded. She moved the comforter down a hair so that it wasn't strangling her.

"Back in Ohio. Remember how you said your stuff was less crazy than mine?"

"Vaguely."

Dean chuckled faintly, his voice slurring. "Pretty sure the pendulum's swung back the other way."

There was no good counter-argument to this, so Faith ran one of her cold feet along his bare leg in retaliation and scrunched her eyes tight until exhaustion claimed her and dragged her down into dreamland.

* * *

When the Slayer woke the next morning around eleven, she quietly changed out of her tank top and sweat pants into a faded rock band t-shirt and jeans, then slunk carefully out of the bedroom, leaving an unconscious Dean alone in the bed. As it was, the hunter continued to sleep for a few hours more. It was nearly three in the afternoon by the time he finally emerged from Faith's room.

Starving and sore, Dean checked the living room and kitchen for signs of life. Someone had left an untended pile of half-scrubbed dishes in the base of the sink, but other than that, the apartment was apparently deserted. Curious, he wandered along the hallway to the closed study door. The hunter knocked once with his knuckles and then pushed his way in.

Buffy and Angel were huddled together near Giles' old desk, their shoulders brushing as they examined some ancient mildewy text. They sprang apart sheepishly at Dean's entrance. Deciding not to comment on this, the hunter shut the door behind him.

"Where is everyone?" he asked with a theatrical yawn in an effort to play up the tired angle and put the others at their ease.

"Faith left about half an hour ago with Willow." Angel rose from the leather desk chair and lifted the water-stained book back to its place on the bookshelf to the right of the desk. "They're doing the grocery shopping, I believe. She said for you to call her if you thought of anything you might want."

"'Bout time," Dean muttered, simply to make conversation. "She's down to an egg and a cube of moldy cheese."

The vampire nodded in agreement. "Practically."

"And Fred?"

"She and Spike headed over to meet with the head of Zane Pharmaceuticals." When Dean did not show any hint of recognition, Angel added, "It's a science lab in Magic Town. I took her there a few weeks ago, and they said their tests could not detect any lingering signs of Illyria's presence."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "So either they're lying, or their tests were crap."

"Something along those lines. Fred wants to ask them some questions and set up more testing."

Frowning, the hunter wondered, "How'd she get Spike over there without him turning into a crispy critter?"

Angel took a bit too long to answer this question. Finally, with a sidelong glance at Buffy, he said, "I may still have some contacts at the London branch of Wolfram & Hart, the law firm I used to work with in California. They have as little interest in Illyria campaigning for superiority as we do, and so they sent over a car."

The corners of the blonde Slayer's mouth drooped down. "So that's where that car came from. I thought you were finished with them, Angel," she said, clearly displeased.

"Buffy – "

She brushed him away. "I need to go check in with Xander and Dawn. I'll talk to you guys later. Glad to see you up and about, Dean." The woman slipped out through the study door before Angel could say anything else to stop her.

Sighing, the vampire looked back to his bookshelf and began re-arranging some of the books which had been put away upside down. "How about you?" he asked without looking up to the hunter. "You disapprove, too?"

Dean shrugged. Desperate times made for extremely odd bedfellows. He understood that. "Whatever it takes, right?"

A fragment of the tension drained from the vampire's shoulders. "Right." Angel settled back down into the heavy desk chair. "It didn't used to be this way," he said with another sigh. "Back when I first left Sunnydale, in 'ninety-nine or so, I had this little basement apartment in L.A. Ran a private detective agency out of the ground-floor office. Used to fight with Wolfram & Hart almost every other week. The lines seemed clearer then."

The hunter eased himself into the maroon leather armchair at the other side of the room. He had a feeling that this might take a few minutes. The vampire obviously wanted to talk. "L.A. That was where you, uh, helped Faith, wasn't it?"

Angel shook his head. "I didn't help her. Not really. She helped herself."

Sensing the dismal mood that was pouring off the vampire like a wave, Dean attempted to prevent the conversation from falling too far into gloom. "But without you, she wouldn't have turned herself in. That's what she says, anyway. She says that she would have gotten herself killed first. So you did help her," he pressed.

"I used to think that that was all it took," said Angel dejectedly.

Dean took the bait. "All what took?"

"Redemption." The word fell bitterly from the vampire's lips. "I used to think that if I did enough good things, eventually the scale would tip back. Eventually I would have done enough good to make up for what I had done, as Angelus, as Liam, as myself . . ." He laughed without humor. "But that was a long time ago."

"And now?"

Angel turned his head to the side and gazed out the sole window in the study, its crisp white curtains covering a thick layer of vampire-safe glass. At length, he said, "Back in Los Angeles, there was a time when I did most of my research on the library computers. Read my way through a lot of old newspapers. One night, not long after I left Sunnydale, I came across an article in the LA times. It had been written in 'ninety-three, so it was several years old even then."

"What was the article about?" inquired Dean when the vampire paused.

"Vietnam. More specifically, a veteran was recounting his participation in the My Lai massacre back in 'sixty-eight. He wasn't defending his actions, but lamenting them. One of the things he said stuck with me. Probably the closest thing I have to a personally philosophy anymore," Angel admitted.

Closing his eyes, he quoted, " 'It was easy to put in the time until we got to go back to the world. Unfortunately, some of us will walk in the jungles and hear the cries of anguish for all eternity.'"

The hunter ran this through his head for a moment until he thought he understood what Angel meant. "So you're saying that –"

Angel's hand tightened around the spine of the book currently in his hand. "In the end, some scales can never be balanced."

"That's dark," Dean observed after a long pause.

"Maybe." The vampire looked away from his window and met Dean's eyes with a startling directness. "But not, I think, a sentiment unfamiliar to you."

"What are you –"

"Those of us in the jungles tend to recognize each other. There's a certain look, you know. For what it's worth, I believe Faith considers herself to be in the jungle with us."

Deeply uncomfortable, the hunter rose from his armchair. He took a step backwards closer to the study door. "I think I can hear the girls coming back with the groceries," he lied. "I'm going to go help with that." His fingers tightening around the handle of the doorknob, Dean slipped out through the door and shut it behind him.

Soul or no soul, he reflected as he returned to Faith's bedroom, Angel was one weird-ass dude.

* * *

**June 18th, 2009, Picadilly Circus, London, England, 3:30 p.m.**

As Faith and Willow came through the front door, their arms laden with grocery sacks, Dean was waiting for them in the living room. He relieved Faith of her bags and nodded his head towards the back hallway. "Let me help with that. Buffy wants to talk to you," he said quietly into her ear.

The brunette Slayer raised her eyebrows. "Oh? Something happen with Angel while we were out?"

Dean shrugged. "Not a clue. Honestly, she didn't say."

"O-kay." Nonplussed, Faith shrugged off her leather jacket and draped it over the back of the couch. Buffy wanted to talk? This should be about as fun as herpes. She pushed open the door to her room and surveyed the older blonde woman.

Buffy rose from her awkward perch on the edge of the bed. "Hey." Her hands were clasped in front of her, and she twisted the silver ring on her right fourth finger.

"Hey." Faith shoved the door to with her foot and leaned back against the sturdy surface. "Dean said you fancied a chat?"

"Yeah." The ring-twisting intensified.

The brunette cast about for a safe conversation topic while she waited for Buffy to work her way around to the point. "Everything good with Angel? You guys get any closer to figuring out how to get rid of his 'perfect happiness' escape clause?"

"Not yet. I mean, we've only just started looking, so it's early days still. But that wasn't why I wanted to talk."

Faith locked her knees and curled her toes inside her boots. Best to get this over with as quickly as possible. "What ya got on your mind, B?"

The blonde stared fixedly at her hands. "I'm sorry."

"Excuse me?" Faith's stomach dropped into her feet. This was not what she had been expecting.

"I . . ." Buffy paused. "I owe you an apology."

"It's all right," the brunette said hurriedly, folding her arms over her stomach and feeling supremely out of place. She had never planned on having this particular discussion.

"No, it's not, really," said Buffy. "I'm sorry about yesterday. I went off on you, and it wasn't your fault."

Faith shrugged and continued to avoid eye-contact. "Like I said, it's all right. Wasn't the first time, probably won't be the last time. It's okay. We started off on the wrong foot, you and me. Guess we've never really managed to find the right one. I don't blame you."

Unconvinced, the other Slayer pressed, "You don't?"

The brunette lifted her eyes from the carpet. "What's the point, B? I told you it's all right. And anyway, there's too much water under the bridge to make a difference. We are the way we are."

"I'm trying to change things here." Buffy gritted her teeth. "Why can't you –"

Giving in to her exhaustion and years of pent-up feeling, Faith demanded, "Why can't I what? Why can't I jump all down your throat so that you can feel like you've done the right thing? When you're just going to get all self-righteous on me next time we don't end up on the same page?"

"We don't have to be teenagers forever, Faith. If that water's under the bridge, why do you keep acting defensive? I'm trying to change. I'm trying to be mature and apologize. Why do you keep brushing me off?"

"Because you don't mean it." The words sprang from somewhere deep and horrible within the recesses of the Slayer's mind. She had thought them over and over since Buffy's first 'I'm sorry,' but she had never intended to actually say them aloud. "And, hate to break it to you, Buff, but it's not going to change."

"What are you talking about?"

Her thoughts refused to be crammed back in their box, but at the very least she could keep them from escaping her lips. "I can't do this, B," she said quietly. "I can't. You're sorry. Okay. I forgive you. Can we just leave it there?"

"Faith –"

"I gotta get some homework done." She stepped away from the door to allow Buffy to pass.

Fingers twisting around her ring, the blonde slowly walked across the carpet. When she came even with Faith, she paused. The two women stared at one another awkwardly. A gulf of painful history lay between them, but neither could manage to cross it. This was the closest they had ever come, and still they could not travel the final distance.

After a long moment, Buffy swallowed and said, "That friend of yours – Dean – he's really, uh . . . I can tell that he really tries to look out for you. He seems like a good guy."

"He is," Faith replied flatly. "I can trust him." With a twisted honesty intended to shock, she added, "That's why sometimes I even let him be on top."

The blonde nodded. "Right. I'll let you get back to your work."

"You do that." Faith turned away from her. She waited for the wooden click before she collapsed facedown on her bed. The Slayer screamed silently into her duvet. Maybe if she pretended that she felt nothing for long enough, eventually it would become true.

* * *

**June 18th, 2009, Picadilly Circus, London, England, 7:30 p.m.**

"I don't know what my deal is," the Slayer complained, halfheartedly stabbing her curry with a plastic fork. "She might have actually been trying to fix things."

Dean swallowed a giant gob of tikka masala and reached for the bottle of whiskey sitting on the coffee table between them. He refilled both of their glasses before answering. "Gotta admit – I'm a little surprised myself."

"What, that she apologized?"

"Well, yeah, that, but more by how you shut her down." He leaned back against the couch and stretched. "Always kinda thought you'd wet yourself with excitement if she started making amends, or whatever you want to call it."

"Ugh," Faith groaned. She lifted a forkful of rice and then tilted it to the side so that its contents fell back into the takeaway container. "I'm certifiable."

"You said it, not me."

The Slayer frowned. "Can I change the subject?"

Waving an expansive hand around them, Dean shrugged. "Your friends are all out doing God knows what. As far as I'm concerned, you can do whatever you want."

"Mmm." This time, the bite of curry actually made it into Faith's mouth. She turned so that she was facing him more directly, her shoulder poking into the leather upholstery. For the first time in a while, the tension in the apartment had dissipated. At least for tonight, she could breathe again.

After Dean's tumble into the river and Faith being treated like a AA battery by Illyria, they had somehow earned the honor of being forced to take a night off by Buffy and Angel. Not that Faith disagreed with this. The last forty-eight hours had been brutally exhausting, and she had no desire to spend the night chasing through the London sewers after Drusilla.

"I wish I wasn't so tired," she grumbled, taking another bite of curry and chasing it down with a swallow of whiskey. "I mean, there's so much in this town you haven't seen – museums and pubs and there are some really, really great discotheques down by the river . . ."

Tucking the flaps of his takeaway box inside one another, Dean plopped the closed container on the coffee table beside his whiskey glass. "I'm not going anywhere, Faith," he reminded her as he snuck his fork into her dinner and retrieved a bite of curry for himself.

Faith shook her head in amused exasperation. She had long since given up on trying to protect her food from him. It was an exercise in futility, and the Slayer was learning how to pick her battles. "You're not going anywhere now," she corrected him, "but you will be soon. You check in on Sam yet?"

His tikka masala-induced stupor sliding away, the hunter grimaced. "I told you. He's off finding himself or something."

"I heard you."

"So why are you worrying? You can show me all those things tomorrow or the next day or the day after that."

"Because I know you, Winchester. You might be as pissed at your little brother as all get out, but you're not comfortable being this far away from Sam."

"That's ridiculous."

The Slayer raised her eyebrows. "Is it? What if he called you and needed a hand to get him out of trouble? And you were all the way here in Merry Olde England and couldn't get to him in time?"

Dean grit his teeth. Slayer girl never knew when to leave well enough alone. "Faith – "

After pouring herself another glass of whiskey, Faith nestled herself even deeper in the couch cushions. "It's okay. You want to look out for Sam. I get it. He's your little brother and he needs you. He's not the only one," she added, glancing up from the amber liquid in her hand to meet his green eyes. "But he's the one who needs you the most right now, even if he doesn't know it yet."

"Faith –"

"Shhhhhh." She held a finger up to his mouth. The finger wagged slightly as the whiskey started to take effect. "Don't talk."

Rolling his eyes, Dean batted her hand away and seized the container of curry out of her lap. "You're in a weird mood."

"Told you," Faith remarked, reaching for the television remote. "I'm certifiable."

"You are certifiably something," he said mildly as the Slayer kicked her feet up onto the coffee table. "But I kinda like you that way."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. So, Miss Certifiable, why don't you pick us out something to watch?"

The Slayer snickered into her whiskey. "That, I can do."


	91. Roll the Hard Six, pt 1

**November 20th, 2009, Ann Arbor, Michigan, 2:00 p.m.**

" 'G-d, why does this always happen?' Dean groaned in pain, thrashing helplessly against the shackles which bound him down to the gleaming stainless steel gurney beneath him.

Henricksen's men had made a detour on the helicopter flight back to FBI headquarters. As the chopper landed, they had tugged a black hood over each of their prisoners' heads, and Dean was once again separated from his little brother. Pitiless hands had shoved him into the backseat of an SUV, and he had become completely disoriented during the forty-five minute car ride that followed.

When they arrived at their destination, wherever the hell that was, the FBI officers had dragged him out of the vehicle. There had been a sharp burning pain on the left side of his neck, and everything had cut to black. After an unspecified amount of time, Dean clawed his way back to awareness only to find himself chained to what felt like an autopsy table.

'It's okay, Dean,' came a gentle voice from somewhere above him as a thin young woman with wavy dark hair and bright chocolate eyes stepped into his line of sight. Despite his circumstances, the hunter relaxed automatically. Some of the tension slacked out of his muscles, and his panic receded. It was _her_. The brown-eyed girl. _His_ brown-eyed girl.

'You're late,' he said, his eyes locked on hers. An unspoken something passed between them. Then she withdrew a bobby pin from her wavy tresses and formed an impromptu lock pick. The brown-eyed girl bent over the manacles at his ankles and set to work. The metal clinked quietly open within seconds, and she moved upwards to his wrists.

'Not for lack of trying,' replied the brown-eyed girl. She gripped the edge of the shackle on his right wrist with her left hand to steady it as she twisted the bobby pin in her other hand. Her fingertips brushed against his already-sore skin, their casual caress comforting and familiar.

'How did you find me?'

She glanced up from her work. Warm humor lingered in the depths of her brown eyes. 'Same way I always do,' she said mysteriously.

'Thank God for that,' Dean said with fervency.

When his first hand was freed, he reached up and caught the brown-eyed girl's shoulder. His hand slid across the smooth leather of her leather jacket to nestle into the silky curls tumbling down over her neck. Dean drew her down to him and pressed his lips against hers. Chapped skin moved on chapped skin for a brief moment before she pulled away and returned her attentions to his still-restrained wrist. 'I'd better finish this.'

'Sometimes I think I love you,' he said wryly, running the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. He could still taste the traces of her crimson lipstick.

'Only sometimes?' teased the brown-eyed girl as she released his right wrist and helped him off the gurney. 'Let's get the hell of here.'

Dean kissed her a second time. 'Okay,' he surfaced for air. 'Maybe all the time.'"

"And that ends the final chapter of Deansdarklady79's renowned 'Brown-Eyed Girl Revisited,'" concluded a scarecrow dressed in drab brown and standing at a podium in the center of the room. He shook hands with the reader, a tall, thin woman whose raiment resembled that of a Victorian spinster. The haunted figure brushed a stray strand of straw away from its eyes with a hand drenched in dried blood as the hotel conference room erupted in a chorus of applause.

"Thank you, everyone," the scarecrow continued when the clapping faded into expectant silence. " 'Brown-Eyed Girl Revisited' is a classic example of the female hunter trope, which is one of the three major interpretations of the role of the Brown-Eyed Girl in the lives of Sam and Dean. I trust most of you are familiar with it?"

The audience chuckled and nodded in agreement.

"Excellent." The scarecrow clapped his hands together, sending tendrils of straw fluttering down to the carpeted floor. "The rest of today's panel, 'The Feminization and Instability of Dean as Seen Through the Character of the Brown-Eyed Girl,' will revolve around the other two prevailing theories. First, we will discuss the psychoanalytical aspects of the Brown-Eyed Girl as a personification of the female aspect of Dean's subconsciousness and moral conscience. Then we'll proceed to review the less popular theory that she is a spirit of some kind sent either to protect him from the forces of Hell or to drag him down there before the hounds come calling."

"I've got a question." The loud shout emanated from the dark recesses at the end of the conference room. Two tall figures stepped into the light, standing shoulder to shoulder with matching scowls on their unexpectedly handsome features.

Oh, crap, thought the scarecrow as his stomach dropped down into his straw-covered feet. He fumbled nervously with the notecards in his hands. More straw drifted through the air to the carpet below. He had been looking for them out of the corner of his eye every day this weekend, hoping and praying that they would not be here. Somehow, they must have snuck in unnoticed while Deansdarklady79 was reading her work for the room. "Please save all questions for the end." His voice squeaked into the microphone.

"Okay," called back the taller of the two men.

The rest of the panel passed in a blur. Sweating profusely, the scarecrow barely managed to moderate the discussion in a halfhearted way. It was a shame, he reflected as the room devolved into chaos when a middle-aged man argued forcefully that the Brown-Eyed Girl was a guardian angel sent to protect Dean. He had spent weeks preparing for this panel. And now he could hardly enjoy it.

When at last the room emptied, the scarecrow busied himself straightening the chairs at the panel table and retrieving empty water bottles to tuck into the crook of his elbow until he found his way to a trash can. Pointedly refusing to look up, he still listened with intense fervor to the heavy bootsteps approaching him. As he knelt down to fish granola bar wrappers out from beneath the table, two dark shadows loomed over him, cutting out his light.

"Nice panel," said the taller shadow in a neutral tone that still somehow managed to be threatening. "I quite enjoyed it. Didn't you, Dean?"

"Oh, good. Another set of overly invested cosplayers," babbled the scarecrow.

Quick as a snake, the shorter man's hand shot down to grip the scarecrow by his collar and drag him to his feet. "Andrew," snarled Dean Winchester. There was not a fraction of friendship or forgiveness in his furious green gaze.

"Hi, guys," croaked Andrew. "Having fun?"

The hand at his shirt neck shook him like a terrier going to town on a recalcitrant rat, releasing a small cloud of golden straw. Dean Winchester's eyes narrowed. "Does Faith know what you've been doing?" demanded the hunter.

"You mean the feminine manifestation of your conscience?" joked Sam. His hazel eyes gleamed with amusement, his left arm wrapped tightly around his stomach to suppress the impending laughter.

Sheepish, the scarecrow winced. "Not exactly."

Dean released him forcefully with a shove that nearly knocked the younger man off balance. "Don't worry. I'll be sure to fill her in."

Andrew gulped and glanced down at the costume store boot tops that overlaid his faded converse. He fancied that he could already see the knee-high steaming pile of trouble that he had just landed himself in.

* * *

**November 23rd, 2009, Piccadilly Circus, London, England, 3:35 a.m.**

Faith Lehane clambered into the porcelain bathtub full of scalding water. It was almost too hot to bear, but the Slayer had an impressively high tolerance for both heat and pain. Bending her legs at the knee, she slid down until the water came up to her chin and inclined her head backwards against the tub rim. It had been another long, tiresome night of hunting through the streets of Magic Town.

Over five months had passed since the giant showdown with Archaeus, and to her great discouragement, the ancient demon had yet to be properly defeated. Every time she and Angel got a bead on the demon's whereabouts or found a good lead on Drusilla, the demon and his child went to ground. Faith had long since lost count of the wild goose chases and dead ends that had filled her nights for the last few months.

Still, until Archaeus was vanquished, she could not give up on the hunt. Usually, she had Angel or Spike to accompany her through London's abandoned alleys, but Angel and Fred had left for a trip to Galloway the previous Tuesday, and Spike had returned to California in September to check in with Buffy for a little bit. Until his return on Thanksgiving, the burden of protecting the city rested squarely on Faith's shoulders.

The Slayer stretched out a hand, her fingers closing around an inexpensive bottle of coconut shampoo. She squeezed a dollop into her palm and ducked her head into the water, then began massaging the shampoo into her tender scalp. A slag demon had tried to knock her unconscious earlier in the evening. Unsuccessfully, of course. Now he was dead, and Faith had a massive headache.

She did not have to be this exhausted – there was a simple way out. It would be easy to pass over more of this responsibility to any one of the six younger Slayers in the city, or even to Nadira. It would be easy, but it would not be right. So the Slayer grit her teeth a little tighter and squared her shoulders a little straighter. Only four more days, and then Spike would be back.

Rinsing the shampoo out of her thick brown hair, Faith was not insensible to the irony of this thought. With seven other Slayers in London, her first impulse was still to trust a vampire with a soul. It wasn't that she considered Spike to be morally superior, she rationalized to herself, slipping beneath the water and emerging with her hair neatly smoothed over her skull and tucked behind her ears. It was just that he was more competent.

The new girls had been Slayers for no more than six years. Spike was far older. She trusted his ability to handle himself and to know when to call in backup. Deep in reflection, the Slayer started in on conditioner, once again taking great care not to irritate her scalp any more than necessary.

Her cell phone rang out, a rollicking guitar lick that could only be one person. Faith lifted herself halfway out of the bath and reached over to the counter to retrieve her mobile. She answered the call and turned it to speaker, then returned the phone its original position. "Hey. Was beginning to wonder if I needed to send out a search party or something."

"Faith?" He sounded surprised. "Didn't actually expect you to answer. What are you doing still up?"

"Slag demon trying to start a demon prostitution ring not far from Spitalfields Market."

"You running the Vice unit over there now?"

His voice echoed faintly, and it combined with the relaxing power of the overheated water in the bathtub, quieting her aching head. "Something like that," she admitted, sliding further down into the water's welcoming embrace to rinse the conditioner out of her hair. The water splashed softly as she sunk beneath the surface.

"Guess who I ran into this weekend?"

Not quite in the mood for guessing games, Faith said, "I have no idea. Who?"

"Andrew."

She could hear a vague displeasure in his tone. The Slayer flashed a curious look at her cell phone, resting on the dark stone countertop. "That's . . . interesting," she said after a moment. "Where did you run into him?"

"Michigan."

"Huh. I thought he was in Seattle working on his next novel."

Dean snorted. "Not exactly."

"So why Michigan?"

"Sam and I were there because we got an urgent call from Chuck."

"The alcoholic prophet? Or is it the prophetic alcoholic?" Faith quipped.

For the first time, the hunter chuckled into the phone. "I think either one works equally well. Anyway, turns out it wasn't Chuck who sent for us but one of his superfans, who wanted us to come to – get this – a Supernatural fan convention."

Thousands of miles away across the sea, Faith winced in commiseration. "Oh, G-d," she groaned. "You can't be serious. Those things have _conventions_?"

"Yeah."

She did not really want to know the answer to her next question, but Faith asked it anyway. "And what was Andrew doing there?"

Dean's displeasure returned in full-force. "He was hosting a panel on the character Chuck refers to as the Brown-Eyed Girl and her relationship with the two brothers."

"The Brown-Eyed Girl. That's –"

"Yeah. Your little friend Andrew was hosting a panel about you and me. Apparently, you're the feminine manifestation of my consciousness."

"You have got to be kidding me."

"Does this sound like my kidding voice, Faith?" the man barked.

No, it really did not. Faith slunk deeper into her bath. It had begun to cool and now felt almost lukewarm. She would have to get out in a minute or two. "G-d, Dean. I had no idea, I swear. If I had, I'd've knocked some sense into that thick head of Drew's."

"Believe me, I tried that," replied Dean dryly. "I think he's impervious to sense."

"You wouldn't be the first to arrive at that conclusion," Faith agreed.

The hunter exhaled into the phone. "Yeah. Still, the weekend wasn't a total loss."

"No?"

"The idiots held the convention in a hotel where a couple of ghosts had already taken up residence, so we had a little Casper hunt. But the bigger thing is that superfan of Sam's, the one who tricked us into showing up, she recalled something from those books of Chuck's."

"Oh?" The Slayer rose from her bath and began drying off with a fluffy tan towel.

"She knows what Bella did with the Colt."

Faith froze halfway through rubbing the towel through her hair. "Really?"

"Really." Excitement crept into the hunter's voice. "She knows where the Colt is. Sam and I're headed to South Dakota. Going to talk to Bobby and the Harvelle's – you remember them?"

"Vaguely."

"Anyway, things are finally looking up again, Faith. We're gonna find the Colt. It can kill anything, you know. And anything includes –"

"The Devil," Faith concluded for him.

"Exactly."

Wrapping the towel around her torso, she tucked the loose end in between her breasts and started hunting for a comb. "Be careful, Dean," she warned. She was relieved to hear the hope in his voice, and yet . . . "Just, please promise me that you and Sam'll be careful, okay?"

He sobered. "We will, Faith. I promise."

* * *

**November 26, 2009, Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 5:30 p.m.  
Message:

You up?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 5:32 p.m.  
Message:

Yeah. Covered in gunk, though. Slime demon looking for a human-sized turkey dinner. Think it was an ex of Drusilla's, actually.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 5:34 p.m.  
Message:

No kidding?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 5:37 p.m.  
Message:

He was dead serious. Well . . . he was serious. And then he was dead. Funny how that happens. What're you doing?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 5:40 p.m.  
Message:

Nice. We got the Colt. Big day tomorrow.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 5:44 p.m.  
Message:

Ah. End of the world big?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 5:47 p.m.  
Message:

Last night on Earth big.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 5:51 p.m.  
Message:

I see.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 5:54 p.m.  
Message:

So . . . you busy?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 5:58 p.m.  
Message:

Is this a ploy for last-night-on-Earth phone sex?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 6:01 p.m.  
Message:

If I say yes, would you . . .?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 6:03 p.m.  
Message:

No. I need a Silkwood shower for slime demon decontamination right now. Besides, isn't that blonde Harvelle girl around? Try her.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 6:05 p.m.  
Message:

She kinda blew me off. Come on, Faith. It's the end of the world. Have you no pity?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 6:08 p.m.  
Message:

Look. You win tomorrow, I'll fly over there, and we can have actual 3D celebratory sex. No phones necessary. Deal?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 6:11 p.m.  
Message:

Well, that cinches it. I mean, before it was like 50/50 if we were gonna win. Now, I'm invincible.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 6:13 p.m.  
Message:

You're intoxicated. Slight difference. Remember to be careful out there tomorrow?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 6:16 p.m.  
Message:

You know me. Careful's my middle name. Dean Careful Winchester.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 6:20 p.m.  
Message:

Just . . .whether or not the Colt does its thing, you try to come back in one piece, okay?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 6:23 p.m.  
Message:

For you? One piece it is, O feminine manifestation of my conscience.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 6:26 p.m.  
Message:

Okay. You're definitely intoxicated. I'm gonna go get cleaned up. Call me after the fireworks are over?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 6:29 p.m.  
Message:

You got it.

. . . .

* * *

**November 28th, 2009, Picadilly Circus, London, England, 3:00 a.m.**

His lip curling, Spike stared down at the large yellow mug of blood on the kitchen table in front of him with disdain. "You made it wrong," he informed his hostess.

Faith blinked and lifted bleary eyes from her bowl of cereal. For a half second, she debated stabbing the vampire with the spoon in her hand. Unfortunately, a brisk exploration of his insides with a shiv would only make Spike more dramatic, not less. The Slayer gave her dinner a half-hearted stir. "How's that?"

"You forgot to put the Weetabix in."

Exasperated, she lifted her spoon and pointed first to her bowl and then to his mug. "Milk, Weetabix. Blood, no Weetabix. Seems fairly self-explanatory to me. Besides, we're out."

The vampire jabbed an accusatory finger in the direction of her cereal. "Because you bloody ate it all!"

"Just go to the grocery store and buy some tomorrow."

"What – and get all burnt up to oblivion by the bloody sun? I don't half think so!"

"Spike." The word was said with bite, just short of a snarl. "Not right now. I'm tired. Drop it."

Demonstrating that he was able to take a hint, even if only rarely, the blond lapsed into silence. He sipped at his blood and eyed the Slayer's Weetabix with careful jealousy. There probably had been enough to share, he thought with resentment. Finally, he asked, "What's put a kink in your tail? You've been grumpier than Angel ever since I got in this morning."

With a frown, Faith slurped a bite of soggy Weetabix before answering. "Dean's going up against the Devil tonight," she said quietly.

Spike's scarred eyebrow climbed his forehead. "And you're all stressed because your knight in muscle car armor's putting himself in danger, and you can't protect him?"

The Slayer opened her mouth, trying to think of a properly scathing rejoinder. Before she could figure out the best way to tell Spike to stick it where the sun never shone, her phone rang loudly in her pocket. Her eyes widening, Faith abandoned her current argument and hurried into the living room. She sprawled out on the black leather couch and lifted the phone up to her ear. "Hey. How'd it go?"

"Faith."

One word, and she could already tell something had gone dreadfully, terribly wrong. There was a hollowness to his tone, an empty sort of sound. Faith gripped her mobile more tightly. "Are you okay?" she asked urgently. "Is Sam okay?"

"We're okay. Jo and Ellen . . . they didn't make it." Dean's voice shook, and he sniffed back something as he inhaled. "Frakking Colt didn't even work, either."

"Dean –"

He did not allow her to finish, powering on with a self-directed anger that burned. "It was useless. Just a waste. And now they're dead, all because of a fool idea that Sam and I had. They're dead, Faith, and it's all my fault."

"How?"

"I brought them in on this. And then that demon bitch Meg set Hellhounds on us. The front one was going for me, and Jo stepped in. She saved me, but they got her instead."

"She was a good friend to you." Faith hesitated and then pressed ahead tentatively, "Dean, I can hop a plane first thing, be there before noon –"

"No," the hunter said flatly.

"Dean –"

"No," he repeated, more emphatically this time.

The Slayer ground her teeth in frustration. "I can help," she wheedled, "and it sounds like you could use all the hel – "

"I said no!" Dean shouted into the phone. He paused for a moment, and she could hear him breathing heavily. Then he continued, "You stay. You stay over there, on that side of the ocean. You don't come near this."

"Dean, I can help."

"For once in your g-ddamn life, Faith, listen to me! I don't want you here. You stay away."

Perpetually on a short rein, Faith's temper began to fray. "You listen, Dean Winchester –"

"No." He was not yelling anymore, but he was growling, furious, into the phone. "No. You do not come anywhere close to this. You hear me?"

"Why?" she demanded, growling herself. "Why?"

"Because." Dean spat the word out through gritted teeth, and then all the fight drained out of him. "I lost Jo and Ellen today. I'm not gonna lose you."

A little shaken, Faith tried one last time. "Dean –"

But he refused to let her finish. "You are not going to die because of this, Faith. I am not losing you. I can't."

"Look –"

"I can't . . . I gotta go."

The line clicked dead before Faith could get her final say in. Slowly, the Slayer rose from the couch. She had fancied herself exhausted before. Now, she could barely find the energy to stagger back into the kitchen to the remnants of her late-night snack.

"You okay, love?"

One glance at Spike's curious face was enough to tell her that he had heard her entire half of the conversation, at the very least. Faith carried her bowl to the sink and poured its contents down the drain. Looking down at her hands, she felt strangely disembodied, as if they did not belong to her. "No," she said at length, realizing that she had yet to answer the vampire. "No, I . . . No."

Abandoning his bar stool, Spike approached her with care. He set his mug beside her bowl and cocked his head to one side, his cool blue eyes meeting her brown ones. "You want to talk about it?" he asked gently.

Faith stepped away. "No."

"You want to hit something?" the vampire guessed.

"Yes." She shuddered with the admission.

Spike took another step towards her, holding his arms out away from his body as if to welcome a blow. "You want to hit me?"

For a moment, Faith was sorely tempted. It would be easy, so very easy, to accept what Spike was offering, to drive her fists and heels into his unprotected flesh until he lay bleeding and whimpering at her feet, until all her anger was quenched. It would be easy, but it would not be right. Instead, Faith forced herself to swallow against the lump in her throat. She was not that person anymore. She had not been that person for a long time.

"No," she said with a keen sense of frustration and loss. "It won't fix anything. I . . . I'm sorry, Spike . . . I gotta go."


	92. Roll the Hard Six, pt 2

**November 30th, 2009, Picadilly Circus, London, England**

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 7:12 p.m.  
Message:

I'm sorry.

. . . .

To:7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 7:45 p.m.  
Message:

Go on . . .

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 7:48 p.m.  
Message:

I'm sorry I shouted the other day. I was, uh, upset.

. . . .

To:7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 7:51 p.m.  
Message:

Figured that much. It's okay; you don't need to worry – I'll stay over here. I've been meaning to sell the apartment in Cleveland for a while now, anyway.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 7:56 p.m.  
Message:

You sure?

. . . .

To:7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 7:58 p.m.  
Message:

Look – you can't stop me from researching my ass off. This is my world, too, and I've got as much a right to fight to save it as you do. But if it makes you feel better, I'll stay on this side of the Atlantic to do it.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 8:01 p.m.  
Message:

I don't want anyone else to die for the choices Sam and I made. This is our fault – we brought this on, and we need to handle it.

. . . .

To:7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 8:04 p.m.  
Message:

Thing like the Apocalypse, if it hadn't've been you, it woulda been someone else. Big Daddy Evil's never been really good at staying quiet in its cage.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 8:07 p.m.  
Message:

I know. Still . . . Ellen and Jo died for a mistake we made – you shouldn't have to.

. . . .

To:7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 8:10 p.m.  
Message:

Dean. You and me, the road we travel, it's always going to end bloody. Doesn't mean there isn't value in it. Okay?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 8:12 p.m.  
Message:

If Sam and me can't pull this off, we're gonna need someone who can take over when we fail.

. . .

To:7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 8:17 p.m.  
Message:

So I can help take down Michael and Lucifer, but only after they hollow you out from the inside first and leave everything that was you and Sam in a giant pile of mental goop? What makes you think I'd have a snowball's chance of succeeding?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 8:20 p.m.  
Message:

You always manage to save Angel. No matter what the odds, no matter how many people disagree, you always manage to bring that sonnuvabitch back to himself. I got a feeling, if Michael gets himself all up in me, you might be the only one who'd never give up.

. . . .

To:7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 8:27 p.m.  
Message:

Dean. Do you want me to call you or something?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 8:30 p.m.  
Message:

No. Sam and I've got a case – we're going to sneak into this psych place, pretend we're patients. Should be out in a couple of days. Glenwood Springs Psychiatric Hospital. Ketchum, Oklahoma. You don't hear from me by the end of next week, send one of your mini-me's over to break us out?

. . . .

To:7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 8:33 p.m.  
Message:

You sure you don't want me to send Andrew?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 8:36 p.m.  
Message:

Bite me, Faith.

. . . .

To:7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 8:39 p.m.  
Message:

You'd like that, wouldn't you?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 8:44 p.m.  
Message:

Gotta run. Samantha's getting fidgety. One last thing – we okay?

. . . .

To:7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 8:48 p.m.  
Message:

Yeah. We're okay.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 8:52 p.m.  
Message:

Good. I'll call you Saturday.

. . . .

To:7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 8:57 p.m.  
Message:

Looking forward to it.

. . . .

* * *

**February 3rd, 2010, Picadilly Circus, London, England, 11:17 p.m.**

"I'm afraid I simply can't help you, Peanut," announced the middle-aged man regretfully. He tapped at his forehead with a single tanned finger. "Helping you try to bust your righteous man out of Perdition was one thing, but stopping the gosh darn end of the world?" he chuckled. "Working a bit too much against my own interests there, you know." He folded his hands primly in his lap and gazed across the smoldering coals in a small brass brazier at the scowling Slayer. "Sorry, sugarplum."

"Come on, boss," coaxed Faith. "I know you've got something." She shouldn't call him boss anymore. Faith knew it was wrong on at least fifteen different levels, but what else was she supposed to call him? Mayor? Richard? Dick? Olvikan? They all simply felt too weird rolling off her tongue. And thus, boss it remained.

"You know, I find myself wondering sometimes," drawled the dead Mayor Richard Wilkins III, the intensity of his gaze belying his casual tone. "Haven't heard from you in years, and now you're asking for my help again. A father's got to wonder what's so important that his wandering daughter needs him this time?"

He leaned forward, the shiny toes of his patent leather dress shoes pressing against the edge of the chalk-drawn circle. "This has to do with Dean Winchester again, doesn't it?"

The Slayer folded her arms across her stomach, frowning. "Does it matter?" she asked pointedly.

"Motivation always matters, sweat pea," said the Mayor. His green eyes narrowed, and he watched her expression for any fractional changes. "What you do's only half the pie. Why you do it is the other half."

"What kinda pie you talking about?" hedged the Slayer.

Richard Wilkins III tilted his head to the side and frowned. "Not sure, actually," he admitted with an odd snort of laughter. "Been an age since I had any. Not much pie in this hell dimension."

"You trying to get me to feel sorry for you?" said a suspicious Faith.

"Isn't that what you're trying to do to me?" the demon countered. "Playing upon my not-inconsiderable affection for you to get information? I don't much enjoy this calculating side of you," he added, shaking his head. "My dear girl turned all cold and scheming against me. You can't blame me for wanting to know why. It's that man, isn't it? The hunter who opened the first Seal. You're doing all this to save him."

"And if I am?" Faith demanded, her hands tightening over her knees. The faded material of her jeans brushed soft and worn beneath her fingertips. The Slayer forced herself to remain calm. If she lost her temper, she would not be able to get anything out of him.

The Mayor shrugged. "You can't," he said simply, digging a finger into his ear and twisting. Withdrawing the finger, he examined the wax on the end of his fingernail before flicking it away carelessly. "I mean, I really do hate to put this in black and white for you like this, but there's no stopping what's coming. You can't save this Dean boy from his role in the Apocalypse."

She opened her mouth to interrupt him, but the demon continued on, unperturbed. "It's destiny, Faith. And not even my little firecracker can stop destiny. No matter how hard you fight, no matter how much you love him, you can't stop the Big Bang that's on the horizon." He paused and wondered, "You do love him, don't you?" once again sounding genuinely concerned for her welfare. "Does he love you?"

"Does it matter?" Faith shot back a second time. She dug her fingers into her jeans, her nails piercing through the fabric to press into her skin.

"For what it's worth, Princess, I wish that I could change things for you."

"And yet you won't," the Slayer replied flatly.

He lifted his shoulders in an aimless shrug. "I can't, sweet pea. I'm sorry."

"You could help me," Faith insisted. "You just won't."

"Like I said," the Mayor rose and brushed of the fronts of his trousers, "if it was anything else, I'd move half of Hell if it would make my little girl happy."

He walked around the chalk circle, heedless of the scribbled pentagram that ought to have kept him motionless. Smiling in a way that made the Slayer's teeth ache, he crossed the room over to her. The Mayor gripped her by the shoulders and lifted her up from the ground.

"How are you doing that?" wondered Faith weakly as he set her back on her feet. She was vaguely aware that she ought to be terrified, ought to be screaming for someone on the other side of the door to come and rescue her. But she had sent them all away, sent Spike and Angel and Fred out after another lead on Archaeus, begged off with a headache, just so that she could have this chance to talk to a demon.

Moreover, Faith could not find it in herself to feel fear. He could hurt her, and he very well might, but she did not fear Mayor Richard Wilkins III. It simply was not in her bones. Besides, she was so awfully, awfully tired.

The Mayor patted her kindly on the cheek. "Don't fret over the details," he said, enfolding her into an embrace as cold and hard as steel. He smelled faintly of peppermint. "I would give anything to make you happy, sweat pea," promised the demon as one hand stroked her hair gently. "But some things once written cannot be unwritten. You cannot save your little friend."

Despite her better judgement, the Slayer relaxed into his arms. She rested her forehead on his shoulder and blinked back a tear of bitter disappointment. She had hoped that here, perhaps, might be a few secrets that would allow her to be more than a cheerleader on the sidelines for the upcoming battle. "I have to try," she choked, her fingers digging into the back of his perfectly pressed suit jacket. "I'm not giving up on Dean."

Now that she could not see him, his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "I'm proud of you," said the Mayor honestly. "So very very proud of you. My little firecracker. Brave enough to fight both Heaven and Hell."

"I won't give up," Faith reiterated, aware that she ought to feel more uncomfortable than she did. But it had been such a long time, and something deep inside her responded to his presence on a visceral level. He was dangerous, and he was evil, but he had been something like a father to her once. And part of her subconscious seemed to always view him as such. "I won't give up."

"I know you won't, sweet pea," soothed the demon as he continued stroking her hair. "I know."

* * *

**February 18th, 2010, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 3:43 p.m.**

Bobby's house was not quiet. It had not been quiet for the last two days. Sam's screaming echoed throughout the walls of the too-empty house. As the hours passed, Dean retreated further and further upstairs, until he found himself in the corner bedroom where he had dropped an iron chandelier on the ghost of Meg Masters almost two years prior.

The hunter took possession of the only remaining chair in the room, an ancient Laz-Y-Boy with the springs poking up through the faded tan seat, and fiddled glumly with his Nokia phone. He had so much tumbling through his mind: finding out about the bounty that Hell had put on his head; seeing and losing his parents another time; his recent encounter with the Cupid; and the latest showdown with Famine. And now his little brother lay strapped down in the panic room, detoxing from his demon blood binge.

Almost a year had passed since Sam's last detox, yet nothing had really changed. They were in the same place, only worse. In the empty room, away from the watchful eyes of his brother and Bobby and Castiel, Dean could admit the harsh truth to himself.

With this last job, everyone around him had been losing themselves in their desires – the lovers in eating each other, Sam in his never-ending thirst for demon blood, and Castiel in his new quest to become the Hamburglar. But nothing had changed for Dean. Maybe Famine had not been lying. Perhaps the Horseman could see deeper and further and more clearly than anyone else. Maybe Dean truly was dead inside.

He fiddled with the phone a little longer, resisting temptation. Maybe there was a deep black hole inside of him. Honestly, some days it felt that way, like all he did was swim against a heavy tide and go through the motions of living. Still, there was one thing he wanted to do, one person who somehow managed to make him feel a little less empty, a little less lonely. And when he talked to her, he almost thought they had half a chance.

Ten minutes passed while Dean stared, unseeing, at the blank space in front of him, one hand clutching the arm of his La-Z-Boy, the other smoothing around the corners of the Nokia. At last, he called her.

"Hey, cowboy." She sounded nearly as relieved to hear from him as he felt to talk to her. "How's my favorite asylum patient?"

Dean twisted himself around in the recliner, attempting to find a position where the broken-down springs didn't jam right into his back. "Faith."

"That's me. What's up?"

He figured he'd start out slow. "Met a Cupid this week."

"Oh? How'd that go?" There were male voices in the background. The words were non-distinct, but it sounded like an argument.

"That Angel and Spike?" the hunter wondered.

"Yes," replied Faith with indulgent exasperation. "They're revisiting a favorite old discussion of theirs – astronauts vs cavemen. Don't ask me any more than that – I try to ignore them when they get started in on it."

"Fair enough," granted Dean.

"So, a Cupid." The Slayer brought them back on-topic. "What's that like?"

His suspicions had been well-founded. As Dean gradually brought her up to date, explaining everything from Sam's body swap with a high school kid to the current detox nightmare, his gloom slowly lifted. Faith was, as ever, the perfect audience for him. She knew when to press and when to listen in silence, and her wry commentary on the sh-tshow that had taken over his life somehow made it all feel a bit more manageable. She even made him laugh, a time or two.

"I miss you," he said unthinkingly after nearly an hour's conversation. The battery on his phone was beeping impatiently at him; he would have to hang up in a moment to charge the damn thing.

Faith clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "You're the one who told me to stay away," she reminded him. For the first time all afternoon, a hint of sourness crept into her tone. "If it was up to me . . ."

"You know why I –"

"I know," she said with less irritation. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

The hunter ventured a guess, "You're not finding anything new, either?"

She exhaled heavily. "Not so much as a rumor. You think those angel swords that Castiel and his friends always carry around would be much use on an archangel?"

Dean had already had this thought, at least a hundred times over. "Cass says he doesn't think so."

"And he should know. G-d." Faith exhaled a second time. "Finally looks like we're closing in on Archaeus, by the way. Magic Town's been nonstop chaos for the last two weeks. Whatever it is he's been planning, I'd put solid money on it going down by the end of the month."

Momentarily drawn out of his own misery, the hunter said, "About damn time. What's that demon been up to – getting Botox and a boob job?"

"Nah. Word has it he's been building a Golem. Nadira says that the incipient wild magic of the 'Town's been all messed up lately, whatever that means. She thinks he's making a ploy for its allegiance. Since it's sentient – somewhat sentient, anyway – I guess it can do that."

He shuddered at the idea of sentient magic. "You think you can handle him?" he asked, more seriously.

"Well, I got me an' Angel an' Spike an' Fred, plus Nadira and almost a dozen other Slayers. It won't be a walk in the park, but it should be doable."

"Take care of yourself?"

Faith snorted with feigned annoyance. "That's my line, Winchester."

"You won't mind if I borrow it?"

"Since it's you, I guess it's all right."

"Oh, good. I'd hate to add a copyright lawsuit to all the other crap that's going on right now." Dean attempted for jocular, but some of his recurring empty feeling pervaded the words instead.

The Slayer picked up on it. "Anything I can do, Dean? Other than keep after the books in my spare time?"

"No. This is enough. This is good. This is more than good. This . . ." The hunter hesitated and then just went for it. "Talking to you, it's the most like human I've felt in the last two weeks." There. It was out there. It was out loud, spoken, couldn't be taken back.

"I know what you mean," said Faith, her voice oddly quiet. "I know exactly what you mean."

* * *

**March 10th, 2010, Owensboro, Kentucky, 5:00 a.m.**

Dean barely made it three weeks before he called her again. Although he was reluctant to admit it to himself, had he thought more clearly, he would have realized that the nature of their phone conversations had changed. He was now no longer calling to share a funny store or rant about Sam's latest bad habit or monster girlfriend. Instead, Dean mostly called her to relieve the emptiness inside.

It terrified him to even think about it, but some days it was either whiskey or Faith if he wanted to feel anything that wasn't some shade of despair. And as good as the whiskey could be, some times not even alcohol could cut it, and he needed her, needed her voice on the other end of the line. In a whirling abyss of hopelessness, she kept him sane.

While his little brother slept, Dean snuck out of the motel bedroom. He sat in the bathtub, his socks pressed against the fiberglass near the faucet, one ear cocked towards the main room, in case anyone else took a leaf out of Walt and Roy's book and tried coming after his little brother. As the call rang out, Dean wiggled his toes inside the white cotton of his Hanes. It was a weird position to talk on the telephone, but it was still better than sitting on the toilet.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" asked the Slayer cheerfully when she finally picked up the phone.

He could hear the soft rustling of fabric in the background. "Couldn't sleep," he said more or less truthfully. "Whatcha doing?"

"Folding laundry. I've declared today to be mandatory spring cleaning day. Angel's in charge of all the vacuuming and mopping, and Spike is dusting everything. Fred's locked herself in the office to organize all the books again. She might emerge by the end of the weekend, but I'm not holding my breath."

"How did it go with Archaeus?"

"The magic chose Nadira over him. And then Drusilla fled town. Wasn't that much of a surprise. Felt a bit anticlimactic, really. Still, it's over. Finally. Thank G-d."

"I wouldn't be thanking him just yet," said Dean darkly.

The rustling paused. "Oh?" ventured the Slayer with more care. "What happened?"

Words came pouring out of him. Fetid, angry, unpleasant words. Under other circumstances, Dean would have castigated himself for whining, but this morning he seemed unable to help himself. He told her everything, about Walt and Roy killing first Sam and then him in a burst of gunfire, about his personal Heaven, about Sam's best memories all involving time away from his family. And then, when he had nearly finished venting his spleen, Dean shared Joshua's message from God.

"He's not doin' anything, Faith," he concluded in a furious whisper. If it hadn't been for Sam sleeping in the next room, he would have been yelling. "He could stop this – could stop all of this. All this pain, all this death, all the horrible crap his two eldest kids are going to bring on the world, and he doesn't frakking care. The world is going to end in a scream of pain, and he doesn't frakking care. How's anyone supposed to worship a god like that? Huh?"

"So he is real, after all," breathed Faith to herself.

Dean ignored this. "What'm I supposed to do, Faith, huh? If God himself doesn't give two sh-ts about stopping this Apocalypse, how in Hell am I supposed to stop it? Sam's being all optimistic, says we'll still find a way out, but me, I don't see it. How am I supposed to end all this before my little brother says yes to Satan and everything ends in blood?"

"You still think he's going to say yes?" queried the Slayer.

"Yes," said Dean bluntly. "Every day, I think about it. Every day, I wonder when it's going to happen. How much time I've got left, before Zachariah or Lucifer applies too much pressure. How much time we've got, before it's Apocalypse Now, and it's all too late."

The hunter swallowed and then asked, "Faith, do you trust me?"

She answered without pause. "You know I do."

"I've been thinking." He chose his words with care. "I've been thinking, and I might be ready to change my mind."

"About?"

"I might have a plan. But I need your help, Faith."

Once again, the response came without hesitation. "You've got it."

"I mean, I need your help here."

"I'm listening."

"Not super soon, I want to give it a couple more weeks, but . . . Now that Archaeus is off your worry list, do you think you could manage to be stateside the first week of April or so?"

"If you need me, Dean, I'll be there."

The hunter let out a long, shuddering breath. "Yeah. How long's it been now?"

There was no need to clarify the question. Faith knew instinctively what he was referring to. "Almost nine months, give or take."

"Not too much longer," Dean promised with a melancholic air. He could feel the puzzle pieces beginning to fall into place as he finally arrived at his decision. "It won't be long now."


	93. Roll the Hard Six, pt 3

**April 7th, 2010, Indianapolis International Airport, Indianapolis, Indiana, 4:15 p.m.**

He was waiting for her on the curb just ahead of the parking shuttle pick-up, leaning against the hood of his gleaming black Impala. The car's metal sides had been burnished to a loving glow, and Faith let her fingers trail over the sleek doors as she walked up to him.

"You look about as fresh as roadkill," the Slayer observed lightly, taking in the new lines that framed his eyes and mouth.

"Shut up," growled Dean. He hugged her briefly, disregarding her lumpy red duffel as it caught between their legs. Too soon for his own comfort, he released her and looked down into her brown eyes. "Flight go okay?"

"Fine," said Faith. She grinned as he opened the car door for her. "You 'bout ready to fill me in on your plan?"

"Almost," the hunter promised, closing the door and walking around to the driver's side. Dean coaxed his baby's engine to a purring roar and smoothly pulled away from the curb. He headed north on I-465. At the first exit with a Wendy's, he made a quick detour for cheap burgers and fries.

Only when they had put a good twenty miles between themselves and the outskirts of Indianapolis did he finally broach the subject that had been on his mind for the last month. "Faith," he said quietly.

The Slayer abandoned her survey of the countryside and turned towards him, curious. "Time to talk?" she hazarded.

"I've been thinking," Dean chose his words with care. He had been debating this over and over for weeks now. Every time he hoped he might have discovered an alternative solution, it soon became painfully clear that nothing would work. Nothing except this.

"And?" Faith prompted him.

Dean waited until he reached a fairly empty, straight stretch of highway. Taking his eyes off the road for a moment, he met the Slayer's gaze. "I'm going to say yes."

"To?" But Faith did not require an answer to put two and two together. Her eyes widened, and the color drained from her tan face. "You're not serious."

"There's no other way," insisted the hunter. He looked away from her and back to the road, grateful for the excuse it gave him to avoid the unanswerable questions in her eyes. "I've tried everything, searched everywhere. There's no way out, not this time. This thing's hurtling towards us, and it's going to destroy everything, down to the last godforsaken weed on this godforsaken planet. And all I can do is maybe a little damage control."

Faith stared out the window, her hands clenching themselves into fists in her lap. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, when she hoped her voice would not betray her, she asked, "And you think you can trust Michael?"

"Sam's going to let Lucifer in eventually. I want to believe he's strong enough to say no – he's my little brother, dammit. But it's because he's my little brother that I know him. And sooner or later, Sammy's going to say yes. Least this way, if I let Michael take the reins, the Devil won't have it all his own way."

"You can't." There was no uncertainty in the Slayer's tone. "Dean, you can't. If you do that, there won't be any part of you left."

To the hunter's surprise, his voice was the first one to break. "I have to, Faith. There isn't a choice. I don't have a chance of surviving this – from all the destiny crap those angels like to go out about, it looks like I never had one. But if I can't survive, maybe I can convince Michael to keep the body count low."

"I'm not just throwing myself into this," he continued, growing more confident as Faith did not interject. "I've got a plan. Been stocking up on holy oil. Even nicked an angel blade off of Castiel yesterday, right before I turned my phone off and split. I'm gonna bargain with him, make Michael swear to save as many humans as he can. That's my condition, if he wants to ride around inside me."

"You honestly think that's going to work?" Faith addressed the window. "What if he agrees and then just turns the universe into tomato soup?"

"That's why I need you," answered Dean.

"To threaten an archangel?" the Slayer squeaked unintentionally at the end of the question. "Dean, he's way above my pay grade."

"Not threaten, exactly," he hedged. "More like ensure both parties are honest. I was thinking something along the lines of a blood oath."

Faith raised her eyebrows. "Do archangels even have blood to make a blood oath?"

"Or whatever their equivalent is."

"Where are we going now?" she asked in an effort to change the subject. Her guts were swirling with a dozen different emotions, and it required more introspection than Faith possessed to sort it all out at the moment..

"Cicero," Dean replied quickly. Too quickly.

The Slayer shot him a skeptical glance. "Cicero, huh?" she said knowingly. "Isn't that the town were what's her name lives? That bendy yoga instructor you've liked for forever? The one with the kid?"

"Her name is Lisa. And his name is Ben."

"You really are saying your goodbyes, aren't you?" she mumbled under her breath. Faith hugged herself around the middle and tried to pretend that her insides had not been taken over by a numbing cold. "You really are going to do this."

"I don't have a choice, Faith," Dean reminded her.

"Frak that," said the Slayer bitterly, losing her temper. "You always have a choice. That's your tagline, remember? Doing this is making a choice. If you're going to give yourself over to Michael in a kamikaze blast of glory, at least have the stones to own up to it. You are choosing to let this angel ride you, choosing it of your own free will. Don't lie to me, Dean," she added as exhaustion swept over her. "Don't lie to me, and don't lie to yourself."

"Faith –"

"I hate this," she continued, her gaze once more fixed fast on the green pastures flying by outside the Impala.

"Faith –"

"Shut up and let me finish, Winchester. I don't like what you're choosing. Not one bit. But I respect your right to make the choice. If you think things have gotten that bad, then chances are they have actually gotten that bad. I guess it's time to roll the hard six."

Dean didn't follow. "To what?"

Now she looked at him, twisting around in the seat, heedless of the nylon seat belt cutting into her neck. "Roll the hard six," she repeated. "It's something they say in Battlestar. It means . . ." She swallowed awkwardly. "It means that sometimes, when you're in combat, you have to make tough calls, take risks. It means that sometimes your best course of action means that you're going to lose people."

"Faith –"

"Don't talk, Dean," she warned. "Give me a minute, okay? I trust you. If you think it's time to roll the hard six, then I guess I agree. But just give me a minute to deal with this, all right?"

* * *

Throughout the rest of their drive to Cicero, neither one of them spoke. Faith continued staring out the window, as if the rumpled Indiana countryside could suddenly provide fresh answers to the questions that had been plaguing them for a year.

When they finally got into town, the hunter made a beeline for a Stepford-esque housing edition. He parked in front of the fourth house on the block, a two-story with gray siding that was completely indistinguishable from its neighbors.

"Wait here," he said hoarsely to the silent woman in the front seat. She inclined her head a fraction to indicate receipt of his message.

Saying his goodbyes to Lisa and Ben did not take Dean long. After all, what was there to say? If there was no Devil on the loose, if his little brother hadn't gotten hoodwinked by a demon, if Daddy's little girl hadn't broken in Hell, if Mary Winchester had never died in a ceiling fire in 1983 . . . If none of that had happened, his life might have been different. A future with Lisa – or a woman like her – might actually have been possible.

Dean attempted to explain some of that, but it came out in a jumble. In the end, all he could do was promise that he would make arrangements for their protection, adding their names to the growing list of requests for Michael that he had begun to carry deep in his mind.

The Slayer was waiting exactly where he had left her, her right elbow braced against the window jam, her eyes gazing down through the rain-splattered glass at the Braeden's green lawn. If she noticed the red streaks around his irises, she made no comment.

He drove across town until they found a motel halfway along the sliding scale between respectable and rat-infested. While Faith hopped out of the front seat and swanned her way into the front office to negotiate a cheap rate, Dean tried hard not to think of it as the last time.

When she returned a few minutes later, her face had lost none of its wooden expression. The Slayer handed him the small paper envelope containing their room keys and pointed towards an empty parking space on the other side of the lot. As soon as he tugged the keys out of the ignition, Faith split, swinging her duffel up to her shoulder and charging inside the motel room without waiting for him to get his things from the trunk.

"You get a deal on the room?" he wondered after he followed her inside, in an effort to start some kind of conversation.

Faith dropped her duffel onto the threadbare carpet. It landed with an ominous thud. She opened her mouth as if to say something and then snapped it closed, her jaw clenched tight. "How was Lisa?" she said at length, her tone only slightly strained.

Setting his own duffel bag on top of the stained wooden table near the door, Dean answered quietly, "I've always known that the white picket fence and Sunday dinners future wasn't for me. And that's okay. I've made my peace with that. But sometimes, when I think about Lisa, I wonder if I might've been wrong. Guess now I'll never know."

After sixty seconds passed without a response from the Slayer, he unzipped his bag and withdrew a small amphora, its smooth surface cracked and pitted by time. Dean placed the holy oil on the dresser beside the television and began pouring rock salt across the threshold and along the window sill.

He was nearing the end of the window when Faith croaked, "Why did you choose me?"

Startled, the hunter froze, still partially bent over with the bag of rock salt. "What?"

Faith retrieved the shining angel sword from his duffel and twisted it from side to side in her hands. "Why me?" she asked again, her voice gaining strength. "Why did you choose me to help you with this?" The woman paused, and then her voice dropped down into a whisper, "Why did you choose me to watch you die?"

Straightening up, Dean salted down the last few inches of the sill and turned to her. "Because you're the only person I can trust," he said with perfect honesty.

A flash of something dark flickered across the Slayer's features. "How long do we have? Before Sam or Bobby or Feather-Toes manages to hack your email or perform a locating spell?"

The man frowned. He wasn't entirely sure how this was relevant. "Probably another twelve hours or so. Like I said, I shut off my phone. And I've never told Sam about that email account. Unless one of us starts praying, we should be safe for a little while."

"Good." Faith slid the deadbolt across the door and shoved a chair beneath the handle. The angel sword fell from her hand and clattered onto the table. She stepped in between Dean and the window and cocked her head to the side, raking him over from head to toe with an appraising gaze. Then the Slayer placed her hands in the middle of his chest and pushed.

That single blow sent the man halfway across the room. The backs of his knees collided with the edge of the lone queen, and he fell back onto the mattress. Startled and confused, he wondered, "What are you –"

The Slayer had already peeled her sweater over the top of her head and was now wriggling out of her jeans. "I've never really been the praying kind," she said conversationally, crawling onto the bed.

She dragged herself the entire way up along his body, going slowly to ensure maximum contact. Faith paused only when her face came even with his. Her fingers tugged at the hemline of his t-shirt, and she met his eyes with fierce intensity. "Care to make me change my mind?"

* * *

Faint streaks of afternoon sunlight trickled through the mildewing window blinds as bodies moved against each other in the half-dark. It was a twilight moment in a twilit space. The figures in the bed drew together and fell apart, hurtling towards their impending separation. Dean could not recall feeling such urgency in years, perhaps not since he was a teenager upstairs in Rhonda Hurley's bedroom, terrified that her parents would walk in on them and find him wearing her underwear.

He had been close to Faith before, but never quite like this. This was different. This was not 'You look hot tonight,' or 'I've missed you,' or even 'Everything sucks right now except you' sex. This was end of the world, last night on Earth sex – frenzied, relentless, unapologetic and unforgiving. Her nails left deep red scratches that streaked from his shoulders down to the small of his back, and Dean begged her to hurt him just a little bit more.

When it was over, she rolled off of him and collapsed facedown on the lumpy mattress, her skin slick with sweat. Faith ignored the hunter's left arm, trapped between her stomach and the sheets, instead breathing so deeply that her shoulders shook.

At first, Dean thought she was a little winded from exertion. Nothing more to it. She'd be fine in a second. But as the seconds passed, and the shaking did not subside, and Faith did not lift her head, he realized that what he had taken for panting was actually sobbing.

They lay there in silence while the perspiration covering their bodies cooled. The only sound in the darkening room was the slight gasp every time the Slayer took a breath. Finally, Dean reached his breaking point. He turned onto his side, slowly easing his left arm free. At the same time, he stretched out his other arm and pulled her back against his chest, until her head came to rest on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said, simultaneously gruff and tentative as he brushed at the tracks of eyeliner skating down across her cheekbone.

She jerked her head away from him and turned her face into the side of his arm. "Don't apologize," she mumbled into his skin, the words vibrating in that tiny pocket of air between the two of them.

Faith stayed there for a moment longer and then slipped out of bed, scrambling back into her underwear and jeans before Dean could react. "Not bad, for angry sex," she observed while she grabbed a small black bag out of her duffel.

"So that's what that was?"

"First time for everything," said Faith with a quick shrug, disappearing into the bathroom with her toiletry kit.

"I guess so," Dean said to the empty room as the lock clicked in the bathroom door and water started running. "A first time, and a last."

* * *

For the first few minutes, the hunter sat on the edge of the bed and waited for Faith to emerge from the bathroom. Eventually, however, he gave up on her and got dressed. Slipping outside to the Impala, Dean retrieved a flattened cardboard box from the trunk of his car. He set it up on the motel room table, taped the bottom and sides, and began packing it with his things.

Clothes, shaving kit, an old paperback copy of Killgore Trout, a handful of color photos, his leather jacket, his favorite revolver with its ivory grips – all together, they barely filled the box. When he finished, there was still a good three inches of space at the top. Dean stared down at the contents of the cardboard packing container. Everything said and done, it wasn't much. But then again, it hadn't been much of a life.

Before the constant bitterness could take hold again, he ripped a couple of pieces of paper off the notepad provided by the motel and began scribbling down notes and then tucking them into envelopes. Three in total. One for Bobby, one for Sam, and one for Faith. He had just licked the seal on this last envelope when the Slayer in question finally pushed open the bathroom door and came out.

Faith lingered in the doorway, her wet brunette hair drawn up into a severe bun and secured in place with a pair of black chopsticks. While she had not changed clothes, she had reapplied her makeup. Sharp edges of eyeliner jutted out to the sides of her eyes, and her dark red lips were set in a severe line.

"I'm sorry about that, by the way," she said brusquely. Faith crossed the room and started lifting her stash of stakes, knives, and holy water out of her duffel. It never ceased to surprise Dean how she managed to get so many lethal things through Border Control.

"About what? Making me see stars?" He went for casual in an attempt to decrease the tension. "Don't be."

The Slayer shook her head and crossed her arms over her sweater. "No. I mean, you're all 'what could have been' about your yoga instructor chick –"

"Lisa."

"Right, Lisa." Faith pursed her lips and then exhaled. "I dunno, man," she confessed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Fidgeting, she reached up with her left hand to the delicate cross on its silver chain at her neck and ran her fingers over the small piece of green turquoise set in the center. "I was outta line. Guess I just wanted to see if I could try to rock your world, one last time."

Dean eyed the cross. He could still remember the night he had picked it out for her, in that Santa Fe jewelry store with the serious poltergeist problem. "You don't need to try to rock my world. And if you hadn't noticed, I was kinda an active participant myself, just now. This really about Lisa?" he pressed, unconvinced.

"No." Turning her chin down to the carpet, the Slayer pinched the bridge of her nose. After a handful of seconds, she looked back up at him. "Can we delay this little shindig with your archangel?" she requested. "I've got a few calls to make – we get some more backup, might help us put Michael in the corner. Besides, I need a smoke."

The hunter glanced at her quizzically. "I thought you quit."

"I _have_ quit," Faith replied, slightly irritable. "I just need a pick me up today." Cellphone in hand, she stepped around the end of the bed and attempted to walk past him. Dean caught her elbow and stopped her.

"Thank you."

With a thin smile that did not quite reach her eyes, Faith replied, "You're welcome," and left.

* * *

It took two cigarettes, bummed off the clerk at the front desk, and slamming her first into the brick wall across the parking lot before Faith could pull it together enough to make a phone call. She was seething, alternating between scorching anger and frigid emptiness every few seconds.

How could he force her to do this? Force her to help him end herself? And then make her sit in his car, awkward, an outsider, while he made his one last grand romantic gesture to a woman he had met twice before in his life? Her insides were stewing, brewing with rage and pain, her entire body consumed by a silent scream that was building within her until it became unbearable.

In that instant, she hated him for abandoning his fight, hated him for making her complicit in his death. She had barely lived last year, those months when he had died. Now, she would have to lose him again.

And so Faith let off the pressure in the only way she knew how, rushing into the moment the way she always rushed into things. Drowning out her thoughts in the feeling of skin on skin. Hurtle forwards, force and demand, claw and scratch until her soul ceased its primal, agonal howling. But physical release brought no release from pain, and letting go had only loosed the rein on her tears. When she could not stop crying, she had shuffled away to pull herself together.

He was leaving. Soon he would be gone. There was no time left for tears or goodbyes. He had not called her here for a wake, but to help him negotiate his exit package. So she had splashed some cold water on her face, fixed her makeup, and walled away the ragged, bleeding tendrils of her insides. She could grieve later. Dean needed her now.

Third cigarette in hand, the Slayer wandered around to the far side of the motel and set to work on the rounds. Becka and Lily were first. They could coordinate with everyone, help her to get all the firepower organized. This might take more than Dean's originally planned for twelve hours, but Faith was confident in their ability to continue dodging Sam and Castiel. If she decided to go to ground, and do it right, not even the most determined angel would be able to find them.

After the girls, Faith placed a quick call to Willow. When the witch did not answer, Faith explained the bare facts of the situation into her voicemail and asked for Will to get in touch as soon as possible. Then it was time for her final request.

"Faith?" The female voice sounded slightly disconcerted.

"Hi, Fred. You three doing okay?"

"Well, they haven't managed to burn the place down in your absence, if that's what you're asking," giggled the other woman, her mild Texas twang unusually soothing. "Want me to get Angel for ya?"

"Not tonight. I was wondering if I could talk to someone else."

"Spike? I think he ran out to the butcher's – you wouldn't believe how fast they've been going through pig's blood today. It's just outta this world. Oh, wait. That's the front door. He just got back."

Faith took a long drag on her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke at the nearby streetlight. "Actually, Fred, I need to talk to Illyria."

"Oh." The scientist was crestfallen. "Are you sure?" she asked fearfully. "I mean, I've been workin' on the control and things, and she hasn't managed to take over being King of the Hill, so's to speak. Not for a while now, anyway. But that's all been at Zane Pharmeceuticals. I haven't tried it without the lab and the sedation and, well, you know."

"Just for a minute, Fred," wheedled the Slayer. "Can you, can she just answer a question for me? Can you let her do just that much? Or is it an all or nothing kinda deal?"

Fred hesitated. After a moment's thought, she said, "That . . . That should work. Let me just get someone – in case this goes belly-up and they need to knock me out."

Another minute passed while the two women waited for Spike to come to the phone. Finally, his Cockney accent rumbled beneath Fred's lighter tones. About damn time, thought Faith, who was on her fourth cigarette, chain-smoking with no regard for her lungs.

"Slayer," came the imperious voice at last, ringing through the mobile.

Wincing, Faith moved the phone an inch farther away from her ear. "Illyria. Quick question for you."

"You have my attention," granted the Old One "What is so important that you are taking the risk of releasing me?"

"Three-way cage match. In one corner, we've got Michael the Dragon Slayer. In the other, Lucifer, Son of the Morning."

"And in the third?"

"You, returned to all your former power."

The former god King hissed with excitement. "Ahh. And your question is?"

"Only one thing I gotta know: who wins?"

* * *

After she finished her call with Illyria, the Slayer stamped out the last glittering embers of her cigarette butts and strolled the long way back around the far side of the motel to her room. It was a crazy idea, and it would probably never work. Frankly, though, the craziest idea on earth was better than nothing.

And maybe, at the very least, this would give her something to bargain with Michael with. If he was the first archangel, if he was so high and mighty, he ought to have an ability to control himself. Maybe, if Faith played her cards right, she could convince him to restore Dean Winchester, still alive and still sane, once Lucifer had been defeated.

As disturbing as it was to contemplate, Faith realized that she was quickly backsliding, losing all sense of proportion. One life was not worth more than another, she reminded herself fiercely. Saving lives did not make you better than others, did not give you the right to apportion out life and death. But still, if the rest of the world had to burn so that Dean could be saved, that was a condition that she was almost willing to accept.

Halfway across the parking lot, she noticed that their motel room door was gaping open. Faith sprinted the remaining fifty feet, unsheathing the knife from her belt as she ran. She burst through the door, throwing caution to the wind, but the room was utterly deserted. There was no blood, no signs of a struggle, nothing. Only the cardboard box, its top neatly taped together, and the silent Impala in the parking lot.

She was nearly finished dialing Dean's number before she remembered that he had disconnected his phone. The Slayer searched the room a second and then a third time, adamant that she must have missed something. Each search ended with the same result: nothing. Dean had simply vanished.

Her thoughts spun out in furious circles. Something must have happened to him. He would not have taken off on his own, not without saying a proper goodbye. And somehow, she couldn't imagine him leaving his car like that, either.

White paper atop the cardboard box caught her attention, and Faith flipped through the three envelopes there, hoping that one of them might explain the hunter's disappearance. Had he gotten tired of waiting and summoned Michael alone? Unlikely – the amphora of holy oil sat untouched still on the dresser.

The Slayer propped herself against the dresser and ripped open the top of the envelope addressed to her. Something tumbled from the paper onto the dresser with a metallic clink. Faith looked down. To her shock, she saw a ring, a thick band of silver with an indentation in the middle than ran along its entire circumference. Palming the familiar piece of jewelry, she tugged the single sheet of paper out of the envelope and began devouring the note.

_Faith –_

_Ring's for you, if you want it. Something to remember me by. Used to be my mom's. I mostly use it as a bottle opener nowadays. When you're ready, take it to Lawrence and bury it beside my mom's grave, would you?_

_I'm not much good with words. You know that. Be kind to yourself – there's nothing you could've done to prevent this. So don't indulge too much in the guilt. You hear me, Faith?_

_Guess I learned this year that Heaven's real. Hope to see you there one day. Just don't rush on my account._

_– Dean_

Faith slid his ring onto her right thumb. It fit a little loosely, but it wouldn't fall off. Good. She traced the circle of silver with a fingertip and then pushed away from the dresser. Folding the note, she slipped it into her pocket. Right. It was time to get to work.


	94. Roll the Hard Six, pt 4

* * *

**April 7th, 2010, Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 10:00 p.m., CST**

Wide-eyed, Sam watched as papers fluttered from Bobby's desk to the worn floor below, stirred up by the sudden wind that had arisen with Castiel's departure. He turned back to the others, wondering how best to next combat his brother's sudden madness. They had been trying to talk Dean off the ledge for the last hour, ever since finding him in that Indiana motel that stank of cheap alcohol and sex. Had Sam been alone in Cicero, they would never have gotten this far. But Cass had been there, and he'd used his angel juice to teleport them all back to Bobby's.

That had been almost an hour ago now, and no argument or plea had been enough to sway Sam's big brother. Not even Bobby pulling his suicide bullet out of his desk drawer and reminding Dean that the only reason he had yet to shoot himself was because of a promise he had made to the younger man. Nothing they said made any difference. Dean's mouth was still set in that unyielding flat line, his arms crossed angrily over his chest, his green eyes narrowed stubbornly, his responses staccato and sarcastic.

At this point, Sam was beyond frustrated. He wanted nothing so much as to punch his big brother right in the kisser, but it wouldn't help anything. It was well past time for new tactics. And Sam had a faint inkling of who to try. "If you're not going to listen to me, then I'm going to find someone you will listen to," he said flatly, a fraction of irritation creeping into his voice.

Dean uncrossed and re-crossed his arms. "Oh yeah?" he mocked. "And who's that?"

The taller hunter glanced up from punching a series of numbers into his cell phone. "Faith."

His features twisting themselves into an unpleasant grimace, Dean laughed without humor. "By all means, Sammy, go right ahead. Bring the Slayer into this."

On the third ring, the woman in question answered the phone, her tone filled with surprise. "Sam?"

"Hey, Faith. Sorry to wake you up – I know it's gotta be early morning over there in London."

"It's okay. I'm actually in Ohio right now."

"Oh." That was good. That was better. Sam adjusted his plans slightly. "Anyways, I need your help."

"What's up?"

He explained the current situation as quickly as he could, glancing out of the corner of his eye at his older brother. Dean's glower deepened further when he mentioned the part about leaving the Impala back at the motel. Cass had promised to take Sam back for it once they felt comfortable enough leaving Dean alone for ten minutes. Bobby, Sam noted, was also watching their flight risk. After half a minute, the younger man finished with, "Nothing we say is really sinking in, so I was hoping you could try to talk some sense into him."

Faith snorted into his ear. "Right. Okay, then. Pass me over to him, and I'll do my best."

"I'm just going to put you on speaker, if that's okay."

The Slayer snorted a second time. "You don't trust me, Sam?"

"Of course I trust you, Faith," he hurried to assure her. "It's Dean I'm worried about."

"Fair enough," she conceded. "All right. Let's get this show on the road."

Clicking a button on his phone, Sam handed the fragile piece of electronics to his brother, frowning. "Don't take it off speaker," he warned.

The older man scowled. "No secret communications for the prisoner. I get it." His fingers closed around the plastic, and he lifted the mobile up to his mouth. "So you're part of the intervention team now, Slayer?"

"Guess so." There was a thump somewhere in the background. "The timing of this kinda sucks, Winchester."

"Does it? You're not the one who got knocked out and kidnapped by the people who're supposed to be on your side."

"No one likes a suicide risk, Dean," said the Slayer in a mildly annoying sing-song tone. Something ripped on her end of the line. "Thing is," she continued in a casual voice, "my dog ran off earlier tonight, and I'm in the middle of looking for him."

Sam stared blankly at the phone. This wasn't quite what he had been expecting. Certain that the Slayer would be as vehemently opposed to his brother's kamikaze plan as he was, he had counted on her to be a little more direct and emotional. To lambast his brother with searing words and a scathing tone or maybe to burst into tears and plead with him not to do something so foolhardy and dangerous. Instead, she seemed hellbent on sarcastic small talk.

The youngest hunter rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I didn't realize you had a dog, Faith," he said, pitching his voice up a little so that it would reach her.

"He's a recent acquisition," Faith informed the room. "Shaggy old German Shepherd. Goes by the name of Reggie. Not a bad fellow as dogs go, but I left him in the back yard for half a minute, and he just up and disappeared. I've been all around the neighborhood, but no one's seen him. Just got a call from animal control, though – sounds like they picked him up, and I've got to go get him. Only problem is, now I can't find my keys. I mean, I thought I had a spare behind my back license plate, but turns out that's only rust."

"Maybe you left it in the pocket of one of your other jackets?" Dean suggested.

For a moment, Faith's only response was a rustling noise. And then, finally, the metallic jangling that signaled success. "Good suggestion, thanks." There came a louder thump, and when the Slayer next spoke, her voice was slightly muffled. "Anyway, where were we?"

"You were helping me convince my brother not to throw his life away," Sam reminded her.

"Right," said Faith a little breathlessly. A car door opened and then slammed closed. The sound was soon followed by a second door opening and closing. "Look, Dean, you can't give in."

Sam nodded in satisfaction. Finally, here it was. The confrontation he had actually been looking for.

"You telling me not to do what I think is right?" demanded his older brother, a little subdued.

Somewhere in Ohio, an engine roared to life, and the faint strains of Fogerty drifted through the speaker. _Someone told me long ago. There's a calm before the storm. I know – it's been comin' for some time._

"Oops," said Faith as she killed the stereo. "I'm saying not to give up hope. You never know what might happen."

"Nothing good, I imagine," the hunter replied sourly. "Good luck finding your dog."

"With my luck, animal control will probably give me hell about not having a collar on him, and it'll turn into more of a rescue attempt," Faith groused, then added, "Right now I've just kinda got my fingers crossed that Reggie doesn't take off before I can get to him."

"If animal control's got him, he probably can't get too far," mumbled Dean.

"And what about you?" pressed the Slayer. "You gonna run off and trade yourself to Michael?"

"How can I?" said the man bitterly. "What with being constantly watched by Sasquatch here and all."

"Well, at least that's something." The Slayer raised her voice. "Sam, I'm sorry, but I gotta pick up my dog. Can I call y'all back later?" Fogerty picked back up in the background. _When it's over, so they say, It'll reign a sunny day. I know, shinin' down like water._

"Yeah, sure."

_I wanna know have you ever seen the rain?_ sang Fogerty as Faith mumbled a hurried "thanks." _I wanna know have you ever seen the rain comin' down on a sunny day?_ The phone clicked off when the Slayer hung up, and Dean chunked the rectangular black plastic solidly at his brother's chest.

Sam caught the phone automatically and looked up into his older brother's grim face as Dean muscled his way past him towards the kitchen. "Where're you going?"

Dean glanced back at him with derision. "I'm gonna get a beer," he growled. "Do you mind?"

* * *

**April 7th, 20l0, Cicero, Indiana, 10:15 p.m., CST**

An atlas spread open on the leather bench seat beside her, Faith drummed her fingers over the top of the smooth steering wheel. The Impala purred beneath her hands. Her foot pressed down harder on the accelerator, and the vehicle was filled with Creedence Clearwater Revival wailing soothingly about rain and change and the bayou. Her mobile lay in her lap, momentarily abandoned. Reckoning by the atlas, it was roughly an eleven-hour drive to Sioux Falls. If she didn't get pulled over, Faith figured she could do it in ten.

The call from Sam had taken the edge off her fears. It had not been demons or angels who had kidnapped Dean Winchester. Just his own team, desperate to prevent their leader from abandoning the fight. Faith could work with that. It was far preferable to the alternative.

Speaking of which . . . the Slayer fumbled with her phone as she merged back onto the interstate. She needed to update her co-conspirators. It wasn't quite ten thirty yet in Ohio, and Faith could never quite keep track of Lily's rehearsal schedule for her latest gig, so Becka was first.

The brunette answered quickly. "Faith."

"Change of plans, Beck."

"I'm listening."

"How quickly can you get to South Dakota?"

"How quickly do you need me to get there?"

"By noon tomorrow."

"Lily, too?"

"Her, too."

"We'll be there."

"If you can make it earlier, that's even better."

"She should be home any minute. We'll head that way fast as we can."

"Thanks."

"No problem. You want us to bring the whole arsenal?"

"Whatever you got."

"On it, boss."

The line went dead. Faith considered her options for another long moment before placing her next call.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Fred. It's go-time."

A heavy silence lingered, and the scientist swallowed audibly. "You're sure?" she said weakly.

"Dead sure."

"Okie-dokie." Fred laughed a little hysterically. "I'll get Spike and Angel. Go-time."

"Thank you," Faith said with fervency. "I really mean it, Fred. Thank you."

Her voice growing stronger, the other woman said, "You know, when I first got back from Pylea, all I could think about was what Angel had done for me. 'Handsome man saved me from the monsters.' I kept repeating that sentence to myself, oh, I don't know, only about a hundred times."

Faith was unsure as to the point of this. "Yeah?"

"Well, I guess it's now it's my turn, Faith. My turn to help save a handsome man from the monsters."

The Slayer experienced a brief moment of hesitancy. "You don't have to do this, if you don't think you can."

"When I was a kid, my grandpa used to take me out riding. He had these big old quarter horses, and I was only about ten. They used to scare me, they were so tall. I felt like I was halfway to the clouds, up in that saddle. Every time we'd go out, Grandpa always had the same bit of advice for me."

"Oh?"

"Ride it like you stole it." Fred paused and then continued, "That's what she tries to do, whenever she gets in control. But this time . . ." The scientist swallowed. "This time, it's going to be the other way around."

* * *

**April 8th, 2010, Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 1:30 a.m., CST**

Dean stared down at the concrete floor beneath his boots, at the iron devil's trap worked out in the ceiling fan overhead, at the salt-infused iron walls that were empty of everything, even Bobby's old Bo Derek poster. They had shut him in down here, locking the doors because they couldn't trust him after Castiel had returned from who knew where, bringing back his snot-nosed half brother, resurrected from the dead.

It didn't change things. If anything, Adam's sudden resurrection only proved that there was no other option. Michael was going to ride one of them – Dean or Adam, it didn't matter, so long as the archangel could wriggle his way up inside one of John Winchester's sons. And Dean could not allow it to happen to Adam. He was only a dumb kid, but he still deserved better than to have his mind melted into mush by some dickless heavenly being.

With Castiel returned, all of Dean's protestations had done him no good, just gotten him a one-way ticket down into the basement panic room. Only a few weeks ago, it had been Sammy locked away down here to detox from demon blood, strapped to the same rickety cot that Dean now sat on. It was almost enough to make Dean laugh, but he figured if he did that, he might never stop, until he was laughing and crying in equal measure like some sort of madman.

He could still see the angel's furious expression as they had closed the door. Anger, betrayal, and a slight hint of confusion flickering over Castiel's normally imperturbable features. For a half instant, that particular combination of emotions had reminded him of someone else, and the words darted out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

_Well, Cass, not for nothin', but the last person who looked at me like that . . . I got laid._

Sam had crooked an eyebrow, amused despite his better judgement, and muttered a quick, "Faith? Or was it Lisa?" before saying "Never mind. I don't want to know," and launching into his latest attempt to dissuade his brother from saying yes to Michael. Like all the other arguments that preceded it, the discussion had proven unsuccessful, and Dean was once again left alone.

He liked being alone. Alone, he was free from their unending recriminations and their hurt-filled eyes, free from the guilt that they kept pushing onto him. Alone, he had no one to answer to but his own conscience. Alone, he could close his eyes and replay the memory of her.

He could watch, over and over again, as she pushed him down onto that motel mattress. He could lie back on the panic room cot, the springs poking up into his spine, and memorize her gaze boring into his as he moved above her, her hands gripping onto his shoulders as she rolled the both of them over to finish things the way she liked, with her on top. As getting laid went, it was well worth the remembering.

Dean knew that he would not have to wait for too much longer. She was on her way; he had known that from the moment he heard his baby start and the CCR tape he'd left in the deck come on. The hunter had done some quick mental math then. It ought to take her ten hours to get from Indiana to the salvage yard. Three of those hours had passed already. She would be in Sioux Falls by morning. All he needed to do was escape in a few hours' time. And he had a pretty good idea as to how he was going to accomplish that.

The hunter settled himself more comfortably on his cot, his fingers laced together and his head pillowed on his hands. Dean closed his eyes and hummed softly, Van Morrison's words echoing through his head. Do you remember when we used to sing? Sha la la la la la la la la la la dee dah. Just like that. Sha la la la la la la la la la la dee dah. La dee dah.

He knew she would pull through. She had never let him down before, and that was not about to change now. So Dean continued to hum, imagining those brown eyes, their anger and confusion and betrayal simultaneously so similar to Castiel's and somehow so incredibly different. For an instant, Van Morrison was drowned out by her quiet voice, probing relentlessly at some things that were better left alone.

_Why me, Dean? Why did you choose me? Why did you choose me to watch you die?_

She was probably going to hate him for this, Dean reflected, shifting his weight from one hip to the other. Hell, there was a chance she already did. To be honest, it was kinda a sh-tty thing he was asking of her. Hate him or not, though, she would still help. And at least this way, there was a chance she might live long enough to one day forgive him.

* * *

**April 8, 2010, London, England, 7:00 a.m., GMT**

She could hear their voices drifting in through the filter of the Burkle's consciousness. The words came distorted, as though she were listening to them from underwater. _Just a moment longer,_ Illyria promised herself. _Just a moment longer, and it will be over._

"I'm not so sure about this," said the heavier-set of the two half-breeds. "The risks seem to outweigh the rewards."

The Burkle stepped lightly from foot to foot, currents of anxiety racing through her, almost enough to disturb Illyria's smugness deep inside. "I know," she confessed worriedly. "But Faith needs our help."

"And we help our friends," concurred the blonder half-breed, the one Illyria had once considered her pet.

"It'll only be a few hours," the Burkle wheedled. "And, besides, I don't think Faith has any other options."

Angel capitulated. "I guess not. All right, then." He handed the Burkle a small clear bottle filled with white pills. "Three of lorazepam, the hypnotist said."

"Okay." Winifred Burkle tipped three of the oval-shaped sedatives into the palm of her hand. Smiling bravely, she dry-swallowed the lot. "Here we go."

The benzodiazepines were absorbed quickly, and soon they were singing a siren's song into the Burkle's mind. Rest, they commanded with a gentle buzz as they bound themselves to receptors inside her brain. Relax. You can rest now.

With a gentle sigh, the Burkle surrendered to the call of the sedative and ceased the relentless watch that kept Illyria trapped inside her mental prison.

_Finally_! shrieked the former god king in delight. She was soaring, soaring, pummeling her way through the bars of mental adamant as though they were no more then candy floss. And then the Burkle was hers, from the tips of the hair follicles on her head all the way down to her toes. She clenched her fists and opened eyes of brightest cobalt.

"Gentlemen," purred the ancient demon, triumphant and exultant once more. For reasons she did not care to explore, they had chosen to do this in the living room of the Slayer's flat. Well, so much for blowing the roof off the building for a suitably dramatic exit. It would be more trouble that it was worth.

She stepped lightly away from them. The wary expressions on their faces were enough to make her laugh, but it would not suit for them to see her laughter. Not just at present. Illyria made her way carelessly towards the front door. "I hope you'll excuse me," she called back over her shoulder as amusement bubbled up inside her. "I go to pay a call on an old friend."

* * *

**April 8th, 2010, Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 7:11 a.m., CST**

It was time. He had waited long enough. She would be almost there. Dean ran his hand down the rusted edges of the cot, reaching underneath until he found a broken spring. Gritting his teeth, the hunter raked his palm across the the spring to create a four-inch gash that bled sluggishly. He gazed down at the oozing crimson blood and nodded in satisfaction. It would do.

The hunter moved quickly, painting an Enochian sigil on the wall beside the door with his bleeding hand. The cut stung as he pressed it against the salted iron, but Dean ignored the pain. He had more important things to worry about. Sigil completed, Dean grabbed the two legs of the cot at one of its narrow ends. With a little extra effort, he lifted that end of the bed until the base of the mattress was resting against his chest. Then he released it, and that end of the rickety cot crashed down onto the concrete, a metallic banging that would have been loud enough to raise the dead – if Lucifer hadn't gotten to that part already.

"Dean?" The bellow was Castiel's, and fingernails scrabbled against the iron door to the panic room as the angel hurriedly undid the locks. He slammed the door open and looked wildly about the room. "Dean?"

Dean smiled and slapped his still-oozing palm onto the sigil. "Cas."

As the panic room erupted in a flare of brilliant white light, the angel vanished in a rush of wind. The hunter darted through the open door and slipped through the darkened basement. When no one came running down to check on Castiel, he risked creeping up the familiar stairway, placing his feet carefully to prevent the steps from creaking.

The man moved carefully through the empty hallways of the house and into the quiet scrapyard, where he took off running for the road towards Sioux Falls. He had an appointment to keep with a lady. While John Winchester might have had many faults as a father, he had always taught his sons to never keep a woman waiting. And Dean was nothing if not John Winchester's son.


	95. Roll the Hard Six, pt 5

* * *

**April 8th, 2010, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 8:05 a.m., CST**

The rain was pouring down in Sioux Falls, a cold spring shower that soaked through Dean's dark gray work shirt and chilled him to the bone. Without the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he might have shivered. As it was, he hunched his shoulders against the raindrops sliding down his neck and kept moving.

Partway across town, he hurried into a familiar diner and asked to borrow the phone. The head waitress knew him by sight, said only, " You're Bobby Singer's nephew, right?" and handed over the cordless. Stomach grumbling, Dean ordered a short stack after he finished his call and set to devouring them as quick as he could. He might have blown Castiel's ass to Timbuktu, but sooner or later someone would find him. Still, long as he was waiting, he might as well refill the tank.

His salvation swept into the diner just as he swallowed the last bite of pancake. The bell by the front door tinkled when she walked in, and Dean dropped a crumpled ten dollar bill onto the table and got to his feet. He met her near the door, and they walked back out into the rain together. Even at eight in the morning, she was ready for battle in black leather and scarlet lipstick, and he had caught a glimpse of the angel sword strapped to her waist as she pushed the glass door open for him.

"Where'd you park the car?" he asked softly. They headed up the street towards the more populated part of town.

"Few blocks away," she replied. "You have any problems slipping animal control?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle. Thanks for getting here."

Faith shrugged casually, her shoulder bumping against him. "Anytime. You're getting to be quite the damsel in distress, you realize that?"

The hunter reached for her hand, sliding his fingers between hers. Deep down, he couldn't silence the voices that were craving human contact, screaming at him that this might be his last time to touch someone – anyone – before Michael took control. To his relief, the Slayer did not push him away. "That make you my knight in shining armor?" he teased while they waited for the stoplight to change colors.

She snorted. "Just don't ask me to ride any horses."

"I think I can manage that."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, content to do nothing more than walk side by side. Despite the height difference, Faith had no trouble keeping up with the hunter's longer strides. It was something he was only realizing now. As clouds continued to dump their unforgiving contents onto them, Dean wondered belatedly what other things he had never noticed about the Slayer. There was so much he had not thought to ask her – and now he never would.

"I made those calls," Faith broke the silence. "Becka and Lily are a couple of hours out. In case I needed backup to bust you loose. Now they can stand there and look intimidating when you talk to Mr. Heavenly Dragon Slayer. But there's something else, too. I've, well, I think I've managed to talk Illyria onto our side. She's going to help, uh, persuade said Heavenly Dragon Slayer to maybe see things a bit more our way."

Dean looked down at her, at the raindrops streaming over her forehead, dancing their way past her eyebrows, sliding along the bridge of her nose. "There's no time," he told her as gently as he could, although it felt like something was splintering deep inside him. "We have to do it now."

The Slayer flinched as though he had slapped her, but still she did not reclaim her hand. "Why now?"

They had stopped their walk momentarily, and now Dean set off along the pavement again. He tugged at their linked hands, forcing her to jog a few steps to catch up.

"Why now?" Faith repeated.

"Damn angels brought Adam back. They want him to say yes instead of me. And he will. He's . . . he didn't grow up the way Sam and I did. He doesn't have it in him to hold out, not when they're promising him Heaven and his mother and eternal peace."

Her nails pressed into the back of his hand. "So you have to say yes before he does?"

He lifted one shoulder in an aimless gesture. "He's my little brother, isn't he?"

"Half-brother, really," corrected a cynical Faith.

"Still means he's family. Still means I can't let him do this." Dean glanced down at her a second time and watched a bead of water slowly fall from the curve of her bottom lip. He had a strange impulse to kiss her, here on the street, in the rain. The world was ending, and he felt so damn cold inside. "You still with me?" he asked, the impulse fading as it was swallowed up by the cold.

"I'm here, aren't I?" said the Slayer. "What do you want me to do?"

* * *

**April 8, 2010, Westminister Cathedral, London, England, 12:45 p.m., GMT**

Illyria darted through the hordes of milling tourists, all of them gawking at the graceful curves of architecture whose details were lost as they arched up, up, and up towards the ceiling. She had rarely seen humans in this millennium seem so much like cattle, their necks craning backwards as they pointed out various features of the cathedral to one another. No one paid any attention to the slender blue-haired woman in a hip-length pea coat. She was merely another colorful head in the press of bodies.

Outside, it had been drizzling. Inside, wet shoes tracked water and mud across the ancient flagstones. Outside, the crisp spring breeze had brought life to the dreary London afternoon. Inside, the air grew heavy and stagnant with the exhaled carbon dioxide of so many humans. Given other circumstances, Illyria would have held this meeting here. But Michael could never appear in this place without causing the death of the hundreds of people packed within the building, and that was too unsubtle for the former god king's tastes. Besides, she was running out of time before the sedatives holding the Burkle captive failed.

She pushed her way through the sheep-like tourists until she reached the heavy wooden double doors. Illyria emerged into the damp, gray London air, and she set across the green outside the cathedral. In her heart, the words to an ancient prayer resounded, pushing their way up through her lungs to find her lips.

When she turned the corner into a deserted alleyway, Illyria finally allowed the words to release themselves. "Michael," she said calmly, addressing the air. "Firstborn of the angels, Captain of the Heavenly Host. By blood and bone and kinship, I call you. By the lives that were consumed in constructing Heaven and Hell, I call you. By all that is or was or yet will be, I call you."

The pressure inside the alleyway increased, and her ears popped. Still, the ancient demon refused to halt. A wild wind swept between the stone walls that surrounded her. Others would have required sacred artifacts, the lifeblood of a ram, and a pillar of flame to reach him. She merely lifted her voice. "Michael," she called a second time, impatience overtaking her. "Come."

Wind howled, and the very cobblestones beneath her feet seemed to groan, but he appeared. In his pure angelic form, Michael shone, brighter than a desert sun at noonday. He stood easily six and a half feet tall, clad in a white robe from his elbows to his ankles, a pair of worn leather sandals on his feet. His mouth was stern, his eyes two pits of fire in a remarkable face. He floated in the air a few inches above the cobblestones. Had he actually touched them, they would have melted into puddles from the heat of him.

Michael surveyed her as if she were a mildly interesting insect scuttling across his path. He frowned. "Illyria." When he spoke, his voice was at once both cold and courteous. "To what do I owe the honor? I had thought you were confined still in that pit at the core of the world. That was where my angels sent you, was it not? How did you escape?"

Illyria blinked, and the last traces of the Burkle's raiment fell away from her, the peacoat and sensible flats replaced by her maroon armor. She had not forgotten Michael's arrogance, but she had forgotten how it grated upon her nerves. "As ever, Michael, the hands of humans work to undo that which your Father set in motion. You can hardly blame me for taking advantage of the opportunity once it presented itself."

He stepped closer to her, extending one burning finger and sweeping it beneath her chin, forcing her to look upwards until their eyes met. "Something tells me you did more than take advantage," he rumbled.

Despite herself, Illyria trembled. She jerked her chin loose. "I did not come here to discuss that," she informed him sharply.

"You never were one to dance around the point. Very well. What are we today, Illyria? Old friends, old foes, or something in between?"

Deciding to tackle this from another angle, she said, "I have spoken with your brother."

Michael remained unsurprised. "Lucifer. What did he promise you?"

"He wondered if I were still smart enough to choose the winning side."

"And are you?" wondered the archangel with the merest hint of menace.

"I chose sides once," Illyria pointed out. "I was betrayed."

"You were a demon," Michael reminded her. "And you had already changed sides multiple times. I couldn't trust you. It was the Deeper Well or death."

"I am no demon," Illyria hissed, and spittle flew from the corners of her mouth. "I am not of your brother's making. I am not of your Father's making. I was there when you were born, archangel. I serve that which is older, darker."

The archangel called her bluff. "Amara abandoned you," he said cruelly. "You remember that as well as I, I think. When Heaven and humanity united against your kind, she did not come to save any of you."

"Because you locked her away. You and Lucifer and the Great Eternal One Himself." Illyria shook her head to dispel the fury that was surging up within her. She had forgotten how much she disliked him. Once, she had thought Michael to be high and puissant, the fairest of all Creation. But that had been aeons ago.

"At any rate," she continued, "that is also not what I came here to discuss."

Michael lifted a single dark eyebrow and gazed at her curiously. "No?"

"I have come to intercede on behalf of another."

His eyes narrowed. "Lucifer?"

"No."

"Who, then?"

Illyria swallowed. "Dean Winchester."

A deep furrow wrinkled its way across the archangel's brow, but a wry smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "The human is resourceful, I'll give him that," he admitted. "What did he promise you, to convince you to plead his cause?"

"He has promised me nothing." The former god king's lip curled. She leaned forward and inclined her head to the left. "I was merely curious. Tell me, Michael – have you finally grown up enough to stop playing with your food?"

* * *

**April 8th, 2010, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 8:53 a.m., CST**

In the end, they only had to wander a few blocks more before Dean spotted their target. Outside the old twin screen movie theater, a man in a black cassock was gesticulating wildly, a stack of rain-soaked pamphlets scattered on the cardboard box beside his leg. His agitated voice carried down the street as he harangued the passersby hurrying on their way to work.

"The end is nigh!" cried the preacher when he caught sight of the approaching Slayer and hunter. "The apocalypse is upon us! The angels talk to me, and they asked me to talk to you!" He extended a handful of pamphlets, jamming them into Faith's face. "The apocalypse –"

"We get it." Faith batted the wet paper away from her eyes. "Just, take it down a notch, would you?" She dropped her hand down to rest on the hilt of Dean's filched angel sword.

"The apocalypse," began the preacher again.

This time, it was Dean who interrupted him, grabbing the man by the shoulder and giving him a rough shake. "Hey!" he barked. "I'm Dean Winchester. Do you know who I am?"

The preacher paled, and his jaw dropped open. "Dear God."

"I'll take that as a yes," said Dean. "Listen, I need you to pray to your angel buddies and let them know I'm here."

Instantly, the man dropped to his knees. Clasping his hands and lifting his closed eyes towards the rainy sky, he started to pray fervently. "Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name –"

Thunder clapped, and the air itself shivered. Castiel appeared in the space between the movie theater wall and the preacher. "You pray too loud," he complained in a voice like gravel. The angel touched the man's cheek, and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Looking up from the fallen preacher, Castiel advanced on Dean.

Sh-t. This was not the angel Dean had been looking for. The hunter reached out for Faith's leather-clad shoulders, intent on shoving her behind him just in case. The expression on Castiel's face was positively murderous. Unfortunately for Dean, the Slayer had already had the same idea. She darted in front of him before he could touch her, the silvery edge of the angel blade gleaming in her hand as she lifted it into a guard position.

"Step back," she ordered.

The angel glanced at her in confusion, as if just now noticing her presence. "Slayer," he growled, his eyes flitting back and forth between Faith and Dean. "I should have guessed you were involved in this."

"Step off, Castiel," Faith reiterated, brandishing the sword. "I mean it."

Castiel reached forward, knocking the angel blade out of her grasp with the side of his forearm. Then the angel gripped the lapels of Faith's leather jacket and lifted her off her feet before throwing her against the cold brick wall of the movie theater. The Slayer's skull crashed into the wall with a sickening thunk. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she slid the five feet down the brick, coming to rest in a huddle on the sidewalk, eyes closed, breathing fast. Blood trickled down from her hairline over her left ear and dripped slowly onto her collarbone.

"Faith!" Dean ignored the fallen sword, ignored the hovering angel, ignored everything as he bolted the few steps across the pavement. He brushed at the blood with concerned fingertips, cradling her face in his hands, but her eyelids remained closed. The hunter glanced back over his shoulder, wide-eyed and accusing, "What the Hell did you do?"

In response, Castiel said nothing. After bending over to retrieve the angel blade, he slipped it into the deep pocket of his trench coat. His blue eyes were two chips of ice as he grabbed the collar of Dean's shirt and dragged him around the corner of the building into the alleyway. His first blow landed on the hunter's chin with all the subtlety of a cement block, and it was quickly followed by another strike and then another, the punches falling like rain on Dean's forehead and chin and shoulders.

Raising his arms feebly to protect himself, the hunter gasped, "What, are you crazy?" He attempted to scramble backwards, but Castiel's next blow forced him to his knees, and suddenly there was a wall at his back and nowhere else to go.

The angel continued pummeling him, utter fury etched into every line of his accountant's face. "I rebelled for this?!" he demanded, landing a kick to the hunter's stomach that caused him to curl into a fetal position. "So that you could surrender to them?"

Dean gave up on trying to defend his belly and brought his arms back to either side of his face. He managed to block one of Castiel's punches, but the angel followed up with a lightning-fast left hook that left him with a mouthful of blood. "Cass! Please," he begged, hating himself for doing so, blood dribbling down his chin as he spoke.

His pleas did nothing to appease the angel's anger. "I gave everything for you," snarled Castiel. "Everything! And this is what you give to me."

Head aching, guts burning, his vision blurred, the hunter sank weakly back onto his heels. The barrage of abuse did not let up, and Dean accepted the inevitable. He was so tired. So cold. And now he was so close to finally being able to rest. "Do it," he said quietly, his hands dropping to his knees. More forcefully, he repeated, "Just do it!"

Castiel unclenched his fist. He lifted his right hand, palm open, as if to place it against the hunter's cheek, when a dark blur struck him between the shoulder blades. His attacker knocked the angel off balance, and Castiel fell forward, almost landing on Dean. The newcomer took hold of the man's shoulders and jerked him out of the way just in time.

"No," said Dean's rescuer in a searing voice as she moved to stand between the angel and his victim. "Touch him again, and I will end you."

The angel staggered back to his feet and turned to face her. "You cannot kill me," he scoffed. "You no longer possess any weapon that can harm me."

"I'm the mother-frakking Vampire Slayer." Faith's fingers contorted themselves into claws. "I don't need a weapon to hurt you. Now back the frak away. We're leaving."

Unimpressed, Castiel took a step forwards. "He is weak," the angel insisted. "Do you not know that his weakness will destroy the entire world? Everything that we have fought for, everything that my brothers and sisters have died for – all will be lost because of him!" The last word came out accompanied by flecks of spittle.

"Doesn't matter," said Faith, reaching surreptitiously for the stake concealed inside her jacket pocket although she knew it would be useless against an angel. "He has a right to choose."

The angel edged closer. "He has betrayed us – betrayed me – betrayed everything! You are a fool to have faith in him."

Dean flinched at the virulence spewing from the angel he had considered a friend. In that moment, the hunter hated himself for cowering behind the Slayer's legs like a small child. But the world was spinning, and he didn't think he could stand on his own. Not without taking a header and giving himself another concussion.

"Not another step," warned the Vampire Slayer. "Not unless you're ready to throw down, Twinkle Toes. Gotta admit, I'm kinda looking forward to this. Been wanting to slam my fist into your ugly mug for quite a while now. Since, oh, I dunno, probably the first time I met you."

"Faifff," slurred Dean behind her, the word practically a whimper. "Go . . ."

"It's okay, Dean," said Faith without taking her eyes off of Castiel. "I'm going to take care of this."

"No. You are not." The angel's hand snapped out, too fast for her to react. He tapped the Slayer on the forehead, and she sank into a limp pile in the middle of the alleyway, once again unconscious. Heedless, Castiel stepped over her fallen form.

Shuddering, Dean attempted to push himself up to his feet, but the world was still doing a tap dance around him, and the effort was futile. He looked up into the pitiless blue eyes. "Cass . . ."

"I am not sorry," remarked the angel, although his tone was almost wistful.

Two fingers placed themselves against Dean's forehead, and everything went dark.


	96. Roll the Hard Six, pt 6

* * *

"You know, it never fails to surprise me what lengths people will go to for a Winchester."

Faith's eyelids fluttered open. She glanced up into the round face of a stranger. Dressed in an immaculately pressed black suit, the man crouched over her. His balding head was covered by a few thin strands of gray hair at his temples, and his friendly smile did not reach his eyes. The Slayer wriggled into a sitting position and allowed the man to pull her up to her feet.

"Who are you?" she asked with open suspicion.

"I'm a friend," answered the man.

The Slayer backed away, brushing at the dust on her dark jeans. "You're no friend of mine," she said uneasily. Strangers in suits always made her nervous. Somehow, they never turned out to be as dashing as Bond or as innocuous as Giles. Suits meant the Council. Suits meant lawyers. Suits meant trouble.

Faith risked taking her eyes off the suited man long enough to make a quick inspection of the room. Bare and spotlessly clean, the walls were painted such a bright white that they nearly made her wince. It was a doorless, windowless space, bereft of furniture or carpets to soften the harsh lines of the square walls. Hair rose on the back of her neck. This was a prison. "Where are we?" she thought aloud in a bid for more time.

Blinking, she recalled the thunderous expression on Castiel's arrogant features as he looked over her, her heart thudding rapidly in her chest, Dean panting heavily on the asphalt behind her. Then the angel had touched her forehead, and it all had faded away. Now, she was in this white prison, with the friend who was not a friend and no memory of how she had gotten here.

"Who are you?" she demanded while she silently counted her weapons. Two stakes in her leather jacket. A dagger on her left hip, the blade perilously sharp. A revolver loaded with six silver bullets tucked into the waistband of her jeans. Two steel chopsticks filed to stiletto points, holding her bun in place. The cross pendant resting on her sternum. If her suspicions about this stranger and this place prove accurate, however, nothing in her arsenal would be of use against him.

"Who are you?" she repeated one last time, her thoughts straying from weaponry to puzzling out her situation.

Castiel had promised, the bastard. He had carved his weird angel chicken scratch on her ribs and promised that they could never find her. But Faith knew on some deep inherent level that this place was not a place. The walls were way too pure, too white. There were only two kinds of people who ever looked as horrendously smug as this balding man in his perfectly tailored suit. And somehow, she didn't think he was the kind that worked for Wolfram & Hart.

The stranger smiled that cold smile. "I think you already know," he said confidentially, his jovial tone grating against her temper.

Faith glared at the angel. _Don't touch me._ "Zachariah," she hazarded. His appearance fit Dean's description well enough.

Zachariah clapped his hands together. "Very good. I see that my people were wrong; you aren't a complete idiot."

She would not allow him to provoke her that easily. "How did you find me?"

"I've known about you for ages." That smug smile again. It made her skin crawl. "Since before we dragged that slack-jawed mouth-breather out of the pit, actually. There were rumors, you know. Both upstairs and down, whispers of the woman who was hell-bent on clawing her way into every Hell dimension in search of her lost boyfriend. We all worried you'd pop him out too soon, before he had a chance to open the First Seal. Luckily, you failed."

Reminders of that summer brought acid to burn at the back of the Slayer's throat. "What do you want from me?"

"Gotta admit," continued Zachariah cheerfully, "I almost enjoyed watching you. Provided a very welcome break from the Sam and Dean codependency show, I can tell you that. And the more I watched, the more I realized you could be the answer to their motivational problems. Can never have too many carrots when you're herding a jackass." The angel's eyes narrowed. "Or sticks, for that matter."

"That still doesn't answer either of my questions." Faith struggled to remain outwardly calm. "How did you find me?"

The seraph continued on as if she had not spoken. "I could never decide when I wanted to bring you in, of course. And besides, it was more entertaining to watch you and the Winchesters wade through all your melodrama. But then one day I couldn't find you anymore." His mouth twisted into a frown. "I'm assuming that was Castiel's work. It does stink of him. I had almost forgotten about using you, until a little bird this morning reminded me that the Winchesters were considering bringing you in. How fortunate for me that you happened to be adrift in dreamland at the time."

"So I'm bait?" hazarded the Slayer. Maybe, if she just kept him talking long enough, she could figure her way out of here. Or she'd wake up.

"No, no. Not quite. You see, I've already got that part covered. But I can't have you sticking your nose in. The trouble with you, Slayer, is that you don't know when to lay down and die."

Faith backed away again, slowly increasing the distance between them until her back was up against one of those white walls. "This isn't real," she insisted. "I'm not actually here. It's just a dream. You can't hurt me."

The seraph frowned momentarily. "Your physical location is veiled from me," he admitted. "That's true enough. But I don't need to hurt your body to incapacitate you. Not when I have your mind."

Lightning exploded inside the Slayer's head, burning from the backs of her eyes to her temples to the base of her skull. Overcome by nausea, she bent in half and retched, emptying her dream guts onto the impossibly white floor. Dark green bile spilled across the tile, followed by clots of darkened blood. The Slayer collapsed onto all fours. She couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. All she could do was vomit as her head rang with pain and her intestines twisted themselves inside out.

"Stop," she gasped, blood streaking down her chin to drip onto the floor. "Just stop."

"Hmm." Zachariah surveyed his handiwork. "This is a good look on you, Slayer. Take my word for it. But there's a little something missing." He tapped his jaw thoughtfully. "What could it be, what could it be? Aha. I've got it. A familiar face ought to cheer you up." The seraph snapped his fingers, and a dark shadow emerged from the wall closest to the Slayer.

Within seconds, the shadow solidified itself into the form of a dead man, one that Faith knew all too well. _Every time,_ she thought desperately. _Every frakking time. Why does it always have to be him?_

"Wes?" she croaked as she scooted sideways on the floor to get away from the puddles of blood and bile.

"Bitch," said the creature wearing the face of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.

_Frak_. The room hurtling in circles around her, Faith wiped hurriedly at her mouth with the sleeve of her leather jacket. This nightmare was just getting better and better by the minute.

* * *

**April 8th, 2010, Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 9:45 a.m., CST**

"Oh, God." His head was splitting, and for a split second Dean wondered if he had been run over by a dump truck. The pain in his skull certainly felt that way. But then greater awareness of his surroundings came trickling in. The hunter attempted to roll from his right side onto his stomach but was brought up short by the handcuff around his wrist.

Dean opened his eyes blearily to take in the grim walls of Bobby's panic room. Fan- _damn_ -tactic. He was right back where he had started, only this time his self-righteous captors had taken the precaution of handcuffing him to the damn bed. Grumpy as hell, Dean pushed himself up into a sitting position and met the concerned gaze of his little brother, seated awkwardly on a wooden crate.

"How you feeling?"

The hunter ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, skimming the fuzz that coated every single one of his teeth. "Word to the wise: don't piss off the nerd angels," he said dryly. The familiar ache of frustration had already started building back up within him, but for the moment he could hold it at bay. Besides, with Sam sitting there watching, there was no way he could break out of these cuffs. "So how's it going?" he asked.

Sam's mouth twisted, and he sighed. "Adam's gone," he admitted. "The angels took him."

And the hits today just kept on coming. Dean gritted his teeth and tensed the handcuffed fist. "Where?"

"The room where they took you last May."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded. "Cass did a re-con."

Of course he had. "And?" Dean prompted when his little brother failed to add anything else.

Sam sighed. "And the place is crawling with mooks . . . Pretty much a no-shot-in-hell, hail-Mary kind of thing."

Of course it was. The hunter forced a wry smile. "So the usual. What are you going to do?"

Rising from the crate, the younger man fiddled in his pocket and withdrew a single steel-plated handcuff key. "For starters, I'm bringing you with," he said quietly as he bent over his older brother and twisted the key in the lock. "There's too many of 'em for Cass and me to handle; we can't do it alone. Besides, uh, you're the only game in town."

Freed from his restraints, Dean sprang up to his feet, rubbing at his right wrist out of habit. "You realize this is a bad idea, right? Either they're trying to get me there to say yes and it's a trap, or they're planning on using Adam, but I'm gonna say yes anyway. And I'm going to. Fair warning, Sammy. I'll do it."

"No, you won't." Sam's words were filled with his characteristic stubbornness. "When push shoves, you'll make the right call."

_The right call is saying yes,_ thought Dean, but he didn't see a point in arguing. Adam needed them – needed _him_ – and bickering with Sam right now would likely only result in his getting handcuffed back to that cot again. He tromped up the cellar stairs, following at his little brother's heels. At the top of the hall landing, the hunter came to an abrupt halt. "Where's Faith?" he demanded sharply.

"I wondered when you'd get there." The taller man seemed unsurprised. He exhaled heavily. "She's upstairs."

"I get it. Keep the two prisoners as far away from each other as possible?" Dean took the flight of steps up to the second floor two at a time. His headache had begun to fade as he started scheming. The angels. Adam. The beautiful room. Chockful of mooks. And he'd have Cass, Sam, and Faith on his side. At least to start out with, until they got Adam to safety. After that, he'd need to count on Faith to hold the other two back while he bargained with Michael.

Sam charged after him. "Hang on a sec," he called as his brother reached the upstairs hallway and began poking his head into the unused bedrooms. "Dean, hang on!"

Ignoring him, Dean continued opening and closing doors to one empty room after another. It wasn't over, he reminded himself. One last big rescue mission, and he could finally put his plan into action. Behind the last door on the left, he finally found the Slayer. Stretched out across a broken-down mattress, she lay on her back, her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling slowly as she breathed.

"Hey." The hunter dropped onto the mattress. It bounced beneath his weight. "Wakey, wakey, Slayer girl. We've got to get moving. Hero stuff and all."

When she remained unresponsive, he shook her by the shoulder. "Faith, it's me. Cut out the possum crap. We got work to do."

His little brother appeared in the doorway, and Dean glanced up at him, an ugly scowl etching its way across his face. One of his hands slid the long course from the curve of Faith's shoulder down to her wrist. His fingers clamped themselves over the pulse there, and he felt it bounding against his skin, relentless and strong. "How badly did Castiel hurt her?"

"Dean, there's something you need to know."

Tone dangerously calm, the hunter asked, "What did he do to her?"

"It wasn't Cass, That much I'm certain of." Sam pursed his lips together and frowned. "He knocked her unconscious, same as he did to you. After he brought the two of you back, he said that she ought to wake up before you did – Slayer powers, I guess. But then when he returned from angel re-con and Faith was still out like a rock, he got a little concerned. Did some sort of heavenly-powered full-body scan. He says there's nothing physically wrong with her that he can tell. Tried everything we can think of, but Faith doesn't respond to any of it. Not shouting, not sternal rub, not anything."

While this sunk in, Dean observed the Slayer. In sleep, she looked almost peaceful. "Nothing explains it, you said?" he mumbled, his gaze straying to her right hand resting on her stomach and his silver ring on her thumb.

When he glanced back up, Sam was watching him knowingly. Too knowingly. "Nothing physical, no," he admitted. "But he does have another suspicion."

"And what's that?" At this point, Dean honestly wasn't sure if he even wanted to know the answer.

"He said she was dreaming. And then he tried to reach her the same way he's reached you in dreams."

Dean sagged inwardly. All that effort he had gone to over the last year and a half, to keep the angels away from Faith and out of her head . . . all wasted. Months of separation to keep her safely out of his sh-t and for what? In the end, he could no more protect her than he could protect himself. "And?" he said gruffly.

"He can't. There's something blocking him, he says. Someone, actually. He thinks this is all angelic in origin."

Right. The hunter had no idea why he had ever expected anything different. The douchebags upstairs were playing every card that they had. Kidnapping Adam, incapacitating the one person on the whole goddamn planet who actually had his six . . . His choices were drying up faster than the Dust Bowl.

One last time, Dean reached out. He brushed careful fingertips over the Slayer's forehead and tucked a stray wisp of dark brown hair behind her ears before slowly getting to his feet. There was no need for further words. They had said their goodbyes already – the ring on her hand was proof enough of that.

"C'mon, Sam." He turned his back on the unconscious woman and walked towards the door. "Let's go rescue our brother."

* * *

_You're sick, and you'll always be sick. It goes right down to the heart of you, rotting away at the roots of your soul._

As long as she did not open her eyes, everything would be all right. None of this was real. It was all in her head. It wasn't real. So Faith did not bother fighting back, merely concentrated her efforts on drowning out the mocking taunts of the phantom Wesley. She jammed her fingers into her ears and hummed, curling into a ball to protect her stomach and head, and allowed the abuse – both physical and verbal – to wash over her.

_This is nothing, you hear me?_ she screamed deep inside where not even Wesley or the angels could reach. _I did a solid four months in solitary – there's NOTHING you can say that I haven't said already._

Whore. Bitch. Slut. Waste of Space. Piece of Sh-t. Stupid. Idiot. Vicious. Killer. Murderer. Traitor. Words, all of them. And words tended to lose their power once you'd heard them a few hundred times. None of the insults came as a surprise. Faith knew that she was all the epithets Wesley was hurling at her. She was all those words and worse.

Faith was not good – had never been good, could probably never _be_ good. She was selfish and lazy and corrupted and stained, stained, stained. Her hands were dyed rusty with blood that would never wash out. She did not need some angel to remind her of her fallen state. Faith knew it all already.

The Slayer locked herself away, found that dark quiet place at the center of her soul and barred all access points. To silence Wesley's voice, she thought even louder with her own, the questions coming fast and sharp like gunfire. _How do I get out of here? What happened with Castiel? Can you kill an angel in a dream? Is Illyria having any luck? Can I still save him? Should I even try?_

And running beneath all the panicked questions, an overarching theme, a soft word repeated over and over and over again until it became the background noise rumbling behind every other thought: _Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean._

Everything ached with the gut-wrenching soreness she had felt that day when her first Watcher, Diana Dormer, had died. It was a familiar sensation, and one that Faith was everlastingly tired of feeling. She had done the best that she could. If Illyria could not convince Michael, there was no way in Hell that Faith herself would have even a snowball's chance. _You've done everything you can think of,_ whispered a faint voice in the back of her mind. _And now it's time to rest._

_I'm sorry, Dean,_ she thought exhaustedly, although it was more a general feeling of regret than anything else. _I failed you. Again._

The circle of metal around her thumb burned, and Faith momentarily removed her hands from over her ears to scratch and pull the damn thing off. She flung it across the room and returned to her former position, drawing her knees up even tighter to her chest as the echoes of the ring colliding with the wall slowly died away into silence.

_I can't,_ Faith whimpered deep in her quiet place as the phantom Wesley resumed his onslaught. _I can't be what you needed me to be. I'm not . . . I'm not good, Dean. I'll never be good. I'm just me. And that's never going to be enough to save you._

_I'm sorry,_ her mind repeated fleetingly, sinking into the dank pool of black misery that always awaited her. _I'm so damn sorry._

* * *

**April 8th, 2010, London, England, 7:30 p.m. GMT**

"You're talking in circles, Illyria."

Trust the archangel to call her bluff. Naturally she was talking in circles. Hours had passed, as they moved their conversation from one abandoned warehouse to the next. Illyria didn't particularly care if the archangel's radiance caused a few dozen humans to die in bloody agony, but it would draw inconvenient attention, and so she kept them on the move.

"Am I?" she inquired archly in a play for time.

"Yes." Michael folded glowing white arms across his stomach. "We have discussed every aspect of our long history, from the beginning of the beginning up until this present moment. And you have yet to convince me why sparing the boy should matter."

Illyria flashed him an insincere smile. "I want to see if you are as powerful as you claim. Call me a traitorous bitch all you like. I prefer the term 'survivor.' You say you do not require my help. But can you afford for me to assist your brother?"

"You have never liked Lucifer," scoffed the archangel.

"No," said Illyria," but I do not like you, either. That ended at approximately the instant when your feathered minions banded together to imprison me in the heart of the world. Anyway," she added peevishly, "this is not about liking. It is about surviving. I want you to prove that you can outwit your brother. Prove your cunning. Prove your control."

"By leaving Dean Winchester alive?"

"Yes."

The archangel shook his head. "And how does that prove anything?"

"It's simple, Michael." Illyria tutted impatiently. "As simple as a human boy-child learning to aim into the toilet when he pisses. You can exist without destroying the mortal soul in your vessel. You merely lack the self-control to do so. Let me show you."

Rolling her eyes deep, deep into her skull, the former god King collapsed to her knees. Cobalt receded from her hairline, and her leather armor vanished to be replaced by a fluffy cardigan and tan trousers. A long moment passed in silence. And then –

"Holy moly," breathed the human woman. She kept her gaze on the concrete, could not look up into the brilliant light emanating from the archangel standing beside her. "Gotta admit, I wasn't actually expecting . . . Hi." She stuck her hand out in his general direction.

"I'm Fred. You probably don't know me, but I used to pray to your Father, uh, that is to say God. Funny thing is, he sort of never answered. I mean, I don't know why he would have, just little old me and all. Anyway, I'm not entirely sure why Miss Muffet wanted you to talk to me. I mean, I so much as look up, and I think I'd get turned into a French fry. Which would be on the not-good end of the spectrum, I think."

"Enough." The archangel clicked his tongue. "Enough, Illyria."

The Old One rose to her feet, her shoulder-length hair and eyes once again shot through with brightest blue. She placed her hands on her hips, unconsciously mirroring a pose she had seen the mortals do a thousand times. "Well?"

she snapped.

"I fail to see the point of your little demonstration."

"That was Winifred Burkle, the woman who once possessed this body. She lives on, her consciousness fully intact. And one day, when I finally recreate my own form and am no longer trammeled by this 'mortal coil,'" Illyria's lip curled in derision, "one day, I will depart into my own body, and she will be Winifred Burkle once more."

"And you believe I should do the same?"

"Michael." Illyria crossed the space in between them. She refused to be intimidated by the blistering heat that surrounded the archangel. "Michael," she repeated, her irritation and indifference sliding away for once, leaving something quite different in their wake.

Michael stared down into the lightning blue eyes – direct, intense, and oddly intimate. "We were something other than enemies once, you and I," he said slowly. "If you can refrain from allying yourself with my horrendous brother, we could be so again."

_A snake and a brother to a snake,_ thought Illyria. Aloud, she said only, "Convince me."

The archangel smiled, and Illyria reflected that he had never resembled Lucifer quite so much as he did at that moment. He reached forward until his burning hand hovered mere inches away from the the Old One's heart. "I believe I can manage that."

Her breath caught, stifling and scalding in her throat, the ancient one waited for him to make his next move. Michael opened his mouth but then paused, frowning.

"Can you hear that?" he asked her rhetorically.

"No. What is it?"

"That would be my call to depart. This discussion has been quite . . . enlightening." Michael's earnest gaze raked across her form. "It was Passover not that long ago. If the boy accepts me before Shavuot and the Feast of Weeks, I will endeavor to preserve his soul. But he had best hurry. Time does not wait. Nor, for that matter, shall I."

A hurricane-strength wind rocked the warehouse as the angel disappeared. For a long moment, Illyria stared thoughtfully at the spot where he had been.

_Well?_ prompted the voice in the back of her mind that belonged solely to the Burkle.

_I trust him even less than I did before – and I had not thought that was possible._

_Do you think he'll keep his word, then?_ worried the Burkle.

_I would not bet on it, Winifred._

* * *

**April 8th, 2010, Singer Salvage Yard, South Dakota, 12:30 p.m., CST**

"Front door or back?"

"We could always do both."

"I don't think so, Beck." Lily Price sucked her teeth. "United front on this one. How many hostiles?"

Becka Viglione lowered the heat-vision goggles from her face and allowed them to dangle down from the lanyard around her waist. She had purchased them from Kennedy's Deepscan liquidation sale on a whim, but they were certainly coming in handy now. "Looks like there's a seated man on the ground floor and a supine figure on the second."

"Any cooler signatures?"

Frowning, the engineer raised the binoculars back up to her eyes. "There's one," she said dryly, "but it's pretty much shaped like a refrigerator."

"Great. Two potential hostiles and a refrigerator." Lily ran a hand through her tangled hair. This was the absolute last time she ever left for a job without packing multiple hair ties. "You're sure she's in there?"

"GPS doesn't lie," replied Becka calmly. "At least not intentionally. Faith's phone is in there –" she gestured to the run down, weatherbeaten house across the gravel driveway. "I just hope she's still attached to it."

"Yeah." The blonde fingered the Glock holstered at her hip. Buffy was constantly preaching the evils of firearms, but in this aspect, like so many others, the younger generation preferred to think for themselves. A concealed carry permit could be incredibly useful under the right circumstances. "Shall we?"

Her best friend and roommate lifted a well-oiled crossbow to her shoulder. "After you. I insist."

With a short nod, Lily dropped into a crouch and began sneaking her way closer to the ramshackle house, moving from one junked-out car to the next. The two women carefully crept up the creaky front porch steps. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they exchanged one last glance. Becka raised her eyebrows; Lily winked in response. It was all the discussion they needed.

Moving in unison, they spun on their heels. Lily jerked the screen door open and out of the way, making space for Becka to kick in the wooden door behind it. They charged inside and followed the main hallway until it spilled out into a room that was at once both main living space and study.

A middle-aged man in an ancient trucker cap and a wheelchair was seated in front of the giant oaken desk, a sawed-off shotgun in his hands, almost as if he had been waiting for them. He lifted the shotgun at their approach and growled, "Get the hell out of my house."

The two women skidded to a halt on the threadbare carpet, raising their weapons to meet the older man's. "I'm Becka," the brunette announced proudly. "This's Lily."

"We're Vampire Slayers." Lily added the capitals for emphasis. "And we aren't going anywhere until we get what we came for."

Slowly, gradually, the middle-aged man lowered his shotgun. "Goddammit," he shook his head. "There's more of you?"


	97. Roll the Hard Six, pt 7

* * *

"One hundred seventy-nine and counting, last time I checked." Becka kept her crossbow raised to chest-height. "But who's counting?"

Lifting her finger away from the trigger, Lily said, "This's your house, is it? That must make you Bobby Singer."

The middle-aged man's scowl deepened. "And how the hell do you know my name?"

"We do our homework," replied the brunette shortly. "Or at least I do. Graduate engineering degrees don't just happen all by themselves."

"So . . ." Lily dragged the word out. "Where is she?"

Bobby Singer was not so easily convinced. "How do I know you're actually who you say you are?"

The blonde rolled her eyes. "Right – so Faith – that other Vampire Slayer – is friends with Dean – you know, the ruggedly handsome one with the 'do-me' eyes, the leather jacket, and the ginormous little brother who only sleeps with monster chicks."

"More's the pity," added Becka under her breath.

"Anyway. Faith was helping Dean out on a little end of the world project. We were supposed to rendezvous in Sioux Falls. Only when we got here, she wasn't picking up the phone. So we tracked the GPS in it to your place. Now, you can splash us with holy water and salt and silver all you like, but it isn't going to show you anything. Just going to waste time."

"Trust us when we say this, Mr. Singer. Lily and I, we're Vampire Slayers. If we meant you harm, we wouldn't waste time with all this chit-chatting." She smiled, showing two rows of perfectly straight white teeth. "We'd just go ahead and do it."

Despite their best efforts, the older man remained uncowed. "She's upstairs," he said gruffly. "Last door on your left. But wait – there's something I need to tell you, first. I want to make sure y'all understand the seriousness of this here situation before you go charging in just like she did and make it worse."

"All right." Becka drummed her fingers over the stock of her crossbow. "Educate us."

It took seven minutes and nearly a dozen questions before the Slayers could make sense of Bobby's tales of Castiel, confinement, and possibly angel-induced unconsciousness. All in all, they still weren't sure if they could trust him. The entire story sounded too crazy to be real, like one of Andrew's half-baked plots, but they trudged upstairs anyway.

True to Bobby Singer's word, they found Faith in the bedroom farthest from the stairwell. The older Slayer lay sprawled across an ancient mattress, and she did not move as they approached. Lily bent over and shook the woman by the shoulder. No response.

"Damn it," she complained. "Faith sure does have a thing for getting knocked semi-permanently unconscious."

Becka grimaced. "Not funny, Lil. Help me get her downstairs – I want to keep one eye on her and the other on this hunter guy."

With a shrug, the blonde reached her arm around Faith's waist and lifted her into a semi-upright position so that Becka could sneak an arm beneath the older woman's shoulders. Together, they heaved the limp Slayer off her feet and began carrying her towards the doorway.

"She's heavier than I thought she'd be," Lily commented as they turned sideways to ease through the doorframe.

"It's the boots," Becka grunted. "And the weapons."

"You flip a Slayer upside down and shake her and what comes out?"

The two young women answered the question in unison. "Daggers and crossbows and stakes, oh my!"

"Becka, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore."

"Ha." They started the slow descent down the creaking staircase. "I wonder what that quote could be from."

"I have absolutely no idea," insisted Lily with false innocence as they half-dragged, half-carried Faith into the living room.

"Yeah, sure you don't. Put her down on three. One, two, three." The Slayers lowered their former mentor onto the faded red couch.

Lily tapped her on the cheek. "Hey, boss, wake up."

Wheeling his chair closer to the sofa, Bobby said, "We've already tried that."

"But did you try this?" She winked at her friend and pitched her voice a half-octave higher. "Fay-aith! Andrew's been writing fanfiction again!" Lily ducked beneath the upholstered arm of the couch, but Faith merely continued sleeping.

"Seriously?" Becka cocked her head to one side. "That always works on her."

"I told you," echoed Bobby. "It's no good."

"Did you light a cigarette near her?" suggested Lily.

"Or open a bottle of Jack Daniels?"

"Or tell her Angel is in trouble? Not your angels – her Angel. Did you tell her he lost his soul again?"

"Or play some really crappy club music from 1999?"

The veteran hunter stared at the two Slayers in blatant incomprehension. "What the hell kinda things you Vampire Slayers up to these days, anyways?"

Becka and Lily exchanged a long, slow glance. "You don't want us to tell you," said the blonde with feigned seriousness.

"Trust us. You really don't. Because if we tell you, then we'll have to kill you."

* * *

_Have to kill you . . . Have to kill you . . . Have to kill you._ Becka's snarky voice reverberated through the Slayer's mind. Strange, that. Becka had no place here. Not in this house of bones.

Faith uncurled from her ball, lifted her head, and sniffed the air. Wesley had vanished. So, too, had the white room with its perfectly shaped white walls. Instead, she now sat on the dew-soaked grass amidst a slew of gleaming granite tombstones. She was back in Sunnydale's Catholic cemetery. To her surprise, the excruciating pain in her head had faded, leaving behind only a tense ache.

This could very well be a trap, but somehow Faith did not think so. The moonlight flickering over the lawn beside her was too familiar. This was her moonlight, her cemetery, her nightmare. She glanced to the right, to the open grave, its gaping maw centered beneath a headstone with a single line of inscribed text: _Faith Lehane. 1981-1999._

_Wake up,_ the Slayer commanded herself. She needed to get moving before the nightmare kicked into gear. _Wake up_

"We could try throwing cold water on her," suggested Lily from far away. Faith focused in on her voice, and the cemetery began to fade into a cloud of slate gray.

"You realize that's just going to piss her off, right?"

"She's already going to be pissed off. This whole situation . . . Hang on, Beck – did you see that?"

"See what?"

"Her eyelids are moving."

Faith blinked and looked up into the concerned faces of her two favorite Slayerettes. Their eyes – Becka's gray and Lily's blue – were narrowed with worry. "Hey," she croaked.

"Welcome back to the land of the living." Becka gripped her elbow and assisted the older woman into a sitting position.

"I feel like sh-t," grumbled Faith. She touched her still-aching head gingerly and swung her legs over the edge of the couch. "Where's Dean?"

"The angels grabbed his little brother," said Lily in a quiet voice. "Not Sam – the other one. Dean went to get him back."

"Right." The Slayer pushed herself onto her feet, wobbling only slightly. With a fleeting glance at the ring on her right thumb, she headed for the double doors leading into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "Bobby, you got any tequila?"

* * *

**April 8th, 2010, Van Nuys, California, 11:54 a.m., PST**

The gateway to the beautiful room had slammed closed behind them mere minutes before, and now Sam and Dean were running through the streets of one of Los Angeles' less attractive neighborhoods. Zachariah was dead, and Adam was lost. Still, life went on, and with Castiel blown to Oz or maybe even further, they needed a new ride to get themselves back to South Dakota. That was pressing concern number one. Once the car situation straightened itself out, Dean could turn his thoughts to other things.

His little brother being who he was, however, not even the scorching LA sun could keep him from talking, searching out loud for explanations of what had just happened to them. Dean was exhausted. Sure, yeah, he'd walked into the whole thing planning on saying 'yes' to Michael. But then he just couldn't. He didn't entirely know why. Something in his brother's eyes, maybe. The hunter had spent most of his life campaigning to keep from letting Sam down. When push came to shove, he couldn't bear to disappoint him. Not with the horrible puppy eyes staring him down from fifteen paces.

"We should probably call Bobby," Sam said slowly when he realized his older brother was not paying attention to his moralizing. "Check in and stuff."

"Right." Dean glanced left and right before ducking down an alleyway in search of some shade. "You may need to fly back and see about Faith. We left her upstairs. Dumbass move – Bobby isn't going to be able to shift her by himself."

"Or we could both fly."

_No._ "Yeah . . . I guess." The hunter used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

"Hey – " Sam knocked an elbow into him. "One other thing I've been meaning to talk to you about."

Dean slumped against a concrete wall in a narrow patch of shade three-foot wide. "Go for it."

His brother took up a position next to him, his mouth twisting into a familiar disapproving expression. "You, Faith, Lisa – what's going on with that?"

"What're you talking about?" asked Dean shortly.

"Mom's ring."

"Yeah . . ."

"The one you've worn since you were, I dunno, sixteen?"

"What about it?"

Sam swallowed audibly, gathering his courage. "You give it to Faith? I saw her wearing it – back at Bobby's."

"About that –"

"Hang on. I'm not done. The ring's yours, Dean, and you've got a right to do whatever you want with it, but I gotta ask – what exactly are you doing? Lisa's a stop on your farewell tour, but you end up giving Mom's ring to Faith? I mean, I know that you're always insisting there's nothing going on between you two, but, honestly, Dean, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it's a duck. And this is the biggest freakin' duck I've ever seen."

Dean frowned. "Look, Sam, I appreciate what you think you're trying to do here, but Faith knows –"

"Knows what? That you fantasize about picnics with Lisa? I haven't forgotten about what was going on in your head with that African Dream Root. Does Faith know you want to settle down with another woman?"

"It's not like that. Faith and I aren't like that."

"Then what the hell are you, Dean? Cass says she pulled an angel blade on him when he went out to retrieve you. That she refused to listen to reason and was every bit as intent on driving off that cliff as you were."

"That's . . . Look . . . Faith's on my side, Sammy. 'Least ways, she was until Cass sent her into a friggin' coma."

"You serious, man? 'On your side?' Sure, if that means helping you kill yourself. She even stop and think about what the two of you were tryin' to do?"

The hunter forced himself to remember that Sam meant well. He wasn't being irritating on purpose. Not at the moment, anyway. "Of course she . . . Look, we're not . . . I don't know what answer you're after here, Sam. As for the ring, I asked her to bury it in Lawrence for me. With Mom. Told her to wear it until she got down to Kansas. It didn't mean anything. Not like what you're thinking."

"Does Faith know that?" demanded Sam pointedly.

"'Course she does," Dean said with automatic confidence.

"You sure?"

Scowling, Dean pushed off the wall and abandoned his shade. It wasn't worth having to put up with this. "Stuff it, Sam," he growled, effectively ending the discussion. "We need to call Bobby."

* * *

**April 8th, 2010, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 2:15 p.m., CST**

Faith stood on the lumpy kitchen linoleum, her boots spread shoulder-width apart, bracing herself against the sink with one hand as she threw back shot after shot of tequila with the other. It burned as it went down, searing the back of her throat, and the Slayer sought release in the physical pain. Better that than the ache in her skull, or the taunting whisper in the back of her mind. Fred was not picking up the phone, and neither Angel nor Spike had heard anything from her since Illyria had taken off much earlier that morning. Faith was beginning to lose ground to the whisper.

_You are too late,_ it hissed. _He's already gone._ She tossed back another large gulp of tequila to silence it.

The double doors from the living room creaked as Lily sidled her way into the kitchen, closely followed by Becka. Faith remained unsurprised. She had actually expected them long before this.

"You okay?" wondered Lily tentatively.

"No," replied the older Slayer, short-tempered and sour.

"You want to talk about it?" Becka asked.

"No," Faith repeated, and she downed another shot.

Their first attempts proving fruitless, the younger women attempted another tack to draw her out. "We're thinking about buying an actual townhouse – no more renting," babbled Lily. "Found a nice three-bedroom place. Want to go in on it with us? Have a place to stay whenever you're in Cleveland?"

"Sure."

A few minutes passed in awkward silence. The Slayerettes were out of ideas. For her part, Faith was content to continue to drown herself in tequila. Maybe if she pickled her insides, they wouldn't hurt quite so badly.

In the other room, the phone rang. Bobby answered it, and the hunter's low rumble drifted, unintelligible, through the walls. After thirty seconds or so, he rolled his wheelchair up to the double doors and pushed them open.

"Here." He pushed his way across the kitchen floor with one hand and held his cell out to Faith with the other. "Phone's for you."

Raising her eyebrows, Faith dropped her bottle of tequila onto the counter and reached for the mobile. "Thanks. Hello?" she said into the phone.

"You're awake?"

If she hadn't already set the tequila down, the Slayer would have dropped it in shock. "Dean? You're alive?"

He didn't correct her. "Well, I'm not dead. You been drinking?" he asked incredulously.

"Thought you'd gone and said yes to Michael. Drinking seemed like the thing to do."

"And here I thought you were in a coma."

"Guess we were both wrong." Out of the corner of her eye, Faith watched her audience troop back into the living room, closing the doors behind them. Good. She could use a little privacy right about now. "What happened, Dean?"

"Short version goes like this: Cass turned himself into an angel bomb. I killed Zachariah and managed to get Sam outta there. We were too slow to save Adam. Michael's got him now."

Faith was cognizant of the fact that she ought to feel horrible for Adam, but in truth all she could feel was relief. _He was alive._ "Oh, God," she said aloud, realizing that she had to say something. "I'm so sorry, Dean."

"Yeah." The hunter exhaled into the phone. "We'll rescue him somehow. Get him to peace or something . . . What happened to you?"

"Zachariah invaded that little nap your buddy Castiel set up for me. Got in my head, sunk his claws in. Wouldn't let go, until about an hour ago."

"That's about when I killed him."

"Figured as much."

"You okay?"

Even though he couldn't see her, the Slayer forced a smile. "Five by five. Lily and Becka showed up to rescue me from Bobby. I'm gonna hitch a ride with them back to Ohio. If Michael's got himself a people suit, I'd better alert the Slayers and the Council. We're going to need to start preparing for the worst." She paused and then continued, "This is probably not going to sound good, but if Michael had to take a vessel, I'm glad it wasn't you."

Dean laughed, although there was little humor in it. "You're right. That does make you sound awful."

"One more thing . . ."

"Yeah?"

Faith tensed her hand on the edge of the sink. She'd been turning this over and over in her mind, ever since the dream started and she had locked herself away inside. It had been one thing when he was about to die, but now . . . "I'm leaving your ring here with Bobby. You want it buried by your mom, you should probably do it yourself. I don't even know where in Kansas she's buried. And anyways, I don't need a piece of jewelry to remember you."

"Faith –" began the hunter hesitantly.

She interrupted him. "Take care. Call me the second you need some Slayer help, all right?"

"You got it," Dean promised, still sounding slightly confused. "Faith, I'm –"

"Save it. No more goodbyes, okay? I'll see you soon."

"Okay. Drive safe."

"You, too."

The phone clicked as he hung up, and Faith was once again left with silence. She eyed the half-empty bottle of tequila contemplatively and then reconsidered. It was a long drive back to Cleveland, and she had no desire to spend any of it puking. Thanks to Zachariah, she had done enough vomiting in her dreams to last her for the rest of the decade.

Shoving away from the counter, the Slayer strode across the kitchen. Time to rally the troops.


	98. Stay, pt 1

* * *

**April 23rd, 2010, Billings, Montana, 8:15 a.m.**

"Where are you now?"

Faith chuckled into the phone. "Back in London. Whole group's gathered here – Buffy, Willow, Xander, Giles, Andrew, Spike, Angel, Dawn, Kennedy, Fred, and over twenty other Slayers. I've convinced them to use Nadira's office in Magic Town for meetings, instead of my living room. Which used to be Giles' living room. It's all kinda weird, actually. Big summit meeting's planned for tonight. Although honestly, given everything that's happened, it seems a bit late."

Privately, Dean agreed that this move might very well be too little too late, but he did not see the use of pointing that out. "Late's better than never, I guess," he commented.

"Yeah. And you?"

"Hmm?" He had gotten distracted by the noise coming from behind the bathroom door. It sounded as though someone was butchering a live walrus but was probably just Sam attempting to sing without the radio. "Oh. Yeah. That's why I'm calling, actually. We've got a lead."

"A lead?"

"Uh huh. This last weekend, there was some sort of pagan god convention – all the old gods decided to band together and offer Sammy and me up as some kind of peace offering to Michael and Lucifer."

"I'm guessing it didn't succeed."

"Not quite. Gabriel – that's that douchebag Trickster –"

"I remember."

Dean snorted. "'Course you do. Anyway, he stepped in and helped us escape. And then when the gods summoned Lucifer and he started killing all of 'em, Gabriel ended up paying the price."

". . . So where's your lead?"

"I'm getting there. Patience, woman. The Trickster slipped a little Casa Erotica into our gear. Left us a message at the end of the DVD. He said . . . said there might be a way to shove Lucifer back down into his Cage. Apparently you can unlock the thing with the rings of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse."

"The Four Horsemen? That's . . . "

"War and Death and Pestilence and Famine. We've already killed two of 'em – War and Famine. Luckily, Sam and I kept the rings."

"So that leaves Pestilence and Death?"

The hunter nodded, then realized that of course she could not see him. "Right in one. So if you don't mind targeting your group's research in that general direction, I'd appreciate it. Still don't have a clue at all how you'd actually go toe to toe with Death – but, hey, at least it's a start."

"Mmm." Faith paused and then added, "You sound . . . better."

Not in the mood for pulling punches, Dean cut to the chase. "You mean I sound less suicidal? Sam says the same thing. Guess he's not wrong. I mean, there's no use in sacrificing myself now. Wouldn't do one lick of good. Your people coming up with anything on your end in the meantime?"

"We're working on it. B likes to say there's nothing we can't face if we all work together."

"Sounds like a load of summer camp bullsh-t to me.

"Close enough. But we can see if we have any books on the Horsemen. Giles'll be excited. He devours Apocrypha like it's comic books these days."

The rampant walrus murder in the bathroom came to an abrupt halt. "Dean!" bellowed an irate Sam. "You used up the hot water!"

Dean slid off the motel room bed and began hunting for his boots, in case he needed to make a run for it. "Look, Faith, I gotta go. Samantha's got her panties in a wad. Call when your group decides something?"

"Will do."

* * *

**April 29th, 2010, London, England, 11:27 p.m.**

"You're what? Hold that thought, Dean." Faith covered the mouthpiece of her mobile and glared fiercely at the conclave of Slayers, Scoobies, and assorted White Hats occupying her kitchen. "Out," she hissed, pointing her index finger towards the door to the living room. "Get out, you lot. Out!"

"Still popular?"

"For a little while. Now what did you just say?" The Slayer seated herself at a bar stool and enjoyed the momentary peace and quiet. It would not last for long – the horde would be back soon enough – but for right now, at least, she had room to think.

"Demon named Crowley. The one I got the Colt from. He's willing to help us with the Horsemen."

"And you trust him?" she said carefully.

"You trust Illyria?" retorted Dean.

"Well, no."

"All right. There's your answer, then. We're on the same page. He wants to go after Pestilence first – I'm not arguing. Sounds like he's got a plan that might actually work."

"Y'all need a hand?"

The hunter did not hesitate to think. "No. Just keep on researching Death. Whatever you can find out will help. Sam and me, we'll gather the rings. Then we might need some backup for the actual re-caging. I'll let you know ahead of time when we get closer to the big moment, so you can head over."

"Got it. Try not to come down with any weird diseases when you go after Pestilence?"

"I'll do my best. Scout's honor."

Pitching her voice up for the benefit of the crowd she felt confident was lurking right outside the kitchen door, Faith said, "You know, it'd be awful if he did to you what those Chumash Indian ghosts did to Xander."

"And what was that?" Dean said dryly.

"Oh, nothing much. Just a nasty case of syphilis and small pox," Faith added with a nasty grin. She could hear startled coughing emanating from behind the wall.

"Syphilis or small pox . . . Not sure which one's worse."

"Best not to find out, right?"

"Right."

* * *

**May 5th, 2010, Chicago, Illinois, 8:24 p.m.**

"Hello?"

After the chill of Chicago, her voice came as a sunny contrast. Dean smiled, ignoring the huff of irritation from the burly crossroads demon currently riding shotgun. "Hey."

"What's up? You okay?"

"We've got it. The last ring."

The Slayer inhaled sharply. "Time for me to start heading your way?"

"Yeah. But there's been a change of plans." He risked a glance at Crowley. The demon was pointedly examining his fingernails in a blatant show of disdain, but that didn't fool Dean one bit. He knew he was listening. Still, there was nothing for it. "There's a chance that this isn't gonna work, Faith. And if it doesn't, I need you and all the Slayers you can possibly rally to come in, guns blazing."

He could hear her grinding her teeth on the other end of the line. "Are you friggin' serious? Dean –"

"End of the world, remember?" he reminded her forcefully. "Gotta have a plan B."

"I thought we'd blown past plan B months ago," grumbled Faith. "What number plan are we even on now?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?"

"Guess not."

Technically, none of this was the Slayer's fault. Dean tried to summon the last dregs of his patience. "So . . . can I count on you and the horde of mini-Slayers as back-up?"

"You got it." Her voice sounded distant. "I'd better run – Buffy's just getting in from patrol."

"Thanks. Fly safe. I'll see you in a few days. We can talk about all this, then."

* * *

**May 9th, 2010, leaving Detroit, Michigan, en route to Lawrence, Kansas, 6:00 a.m.**

"There's been a new plan." The words came out shattered and staccato, shards of glass in his already-burning throat.

"Dean? What the hell? Are you okay?"

"Stull Cemetery. In Lawrence. It's all about to end. Michael, Lucifer, the Apocalypse. I'm driving there now. Shoulda been there six hours ago. How soon can you make it to Kansas?" Every sentence cost too much effort. Dean was a fiery ball of panic, the only thing grounding him to reality was the feel of the steering wheel beneath his hands and the dull roar of his baby's engine.

"I just landed in Cleveland. It'll take me a few hours. I'll see if I can rent a private plane. Is Sam . . ." She was unable to finish the question.

"Lucifer's got him. He said yes."

"Oh, God. Dean . . ."

"It's . . . It's not over. I'm not gonna let this be over. I'm not gonna let them kill him. I'm not gonna let him die alone."

"I'll be there as fast as I can," Faith promised in a shaken voice.

"No." Dean corrected her. "Faster."

* * *

**May 9th, 2010, Stull Cemetery, Lawrence, Kansas, 4:30 p.m.**

In the end, Faith was an hour too late. By the time her chopper touched down on the outskirts of the overgrown cemetery, everything had ended. She leapt out of the helicopter before the engine fully cut out and ran towards the silhouettes of two men and a classic car against the dark blue afternoon sky. The Slayer skirted around the edge of the mud-encrusted Impala and staggered to a halt.

He was there. He was alive, he was breathing, but he did not seem to recognize her, not even glancing up when she stood mere inches from him. His green eyes were stormy and dark, and he said nothing. Confused, Faith turned to his companion. "Bobby?"

"Wish you coulda been here sooner," said the veteran hunter mournfully.

"What happened? Lucifer – Michael?"

"They're gone, both of 'em." Frowning, Bobby spat a wad of glistening saliva onto the muddy grass. "Sam took control – jumped Lucifer back into the cage. Dragged Michael in with him, I think."

"But Sam –"

Moisture glinted in the corners of the older man's eyes, and he sniffed angrily. "Gone, too."

"Dean – "

"Lucifer beat the tar outta him, but Castiel healed it all up before he took off a couple minutes ago. You just missed him."

"Has he spoken at all, since . . .?"

Bobby shook his head. "No. No really. But there's something you should know."

* * *

**May 9th, 2010, Stull Cemetery, Lawrence, Kansas, 5:00 p.m.**

She slid across the glossy leather upholstery, ignoring an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu. Barely a month had passed since her last trip to the States, but she had been expecting this to feel different. After all, the entire world had just shifted on its axis. Why shouldn't this change as well?

But the wheel was the same – worn, smooth, and familiar as its curves passed beneath her hands. She had to adjust the front seat before they could go anywhere – he was at least six inches taller than she was, and even when Faith slumped down, the pedals remained just a little too far out of reach.

The engine sang for her, responding eagerly to the pressure of her booted feet against the accelerator. In spite of all the yammering going on inside her mind, the Slayer had to take a moment to appreciate the vehicle itself. Even coated in grave dirt from Stull Cemetery, it was a beautiful car.

She eased the Impala into a three-point turn, and then she was driving past the helicopter, where Buffy and a few of her friends – the ones not allergic to sunlight – stood beside Bobby. They would ensure that he got back to Sioux Falls safely. Faith had another job to do.

Carefully, the Slayer turned out of the cemetery drive and onto the two-lane highway, using the corner of her eye to check on the man next to her. He remained silent, his face swollen and encrusted with dried blood, despite already being healed by his guardian angel. Faith did not fully understand why she had been tasked with ferrying him back to Cicero – what the big rush was all about and why Bobby or Castiel could not do it themselves.

They were supposed to be his friends, and yet they seemed intent on foisting him off on an apple life with a woman he hardly knew. It made zero sense to the Slayer. If she thought any harder about it, she knew her mild irritation would mutate into something stronger. According to Bobby, Dean had not spoken since Sam . . . fell. Which meant, in the Slayer's opinion, that neither Bobby nor Castiel had a clue what the man actually thought or wanted a the moment.

Still, Cicero was as good a general direction as any, and they drove for hours with not even the radio to break the silence. Around eight p.m., they reached Columbia, Missouri, and Faith decided to called it a night. She swung by a Burger King drive-through for a sack of burgers, fries, and two milkshakes.

When she put the food in his hands, Dean ate mechanically, his gaze cast down, his eyes locked on the food. Faith scarfed her meal as quickly as she could and then pulled across the road to a Days Inn parking lot, leaving him in the car while she negotiated the rent for a double-queen down from $160 to $125. Today, it was the small things that kept her from driving the two of them onto the train tracks and just waiting for oblivion.

Catatonic seemed to be Dean's buzzword of the evening, but when she returned to the car, he had already finished eating and packaged the trash into the BK brown paper bag. This time, Faith parked the Impala properly. She retrieved her backpack from the back seat and led the way into the hotel. To her surprise, Dean appeared to rally. He carried his own duffel and lifted his chin, almost making eye contact with strangers and looking nearly normal as they walked through the hotel lobby.

Unfortunately, this only lasted until they reached their room. At the door, Faith fumbled with the key card, uncharacteristically clumsy. Shoving the door open with one shoulder, she turned to see that the hunter had crumpled in on himself again. _Sh-t_. She dropped their bags on the beds, throwing hers onto the mattress closer to the door.

As she did so, he continued to stand expressionless in the center of the room. Faith bit back her frustration and her sarcasm. They wouldn't help anything. Instead, she took the first-aid kit she had gotten at the front desk and towed Dean into the bathroom.

She made quick work stripping him of his bloodied clothing while he stared blankly ahead into the bathroom mirror. Neither of them spoke as Faith undressed the man like a child, tugging his t-shirt over his head and quietly commanding him to step out of his ruined jeans and underwear.

"You need to take a shower," she said stiffly, and she reached past the plastic curtain to turn the water on. "I'll be right back."

Dean said nothing, and so Faith shoved the ball of stained clothes into the crook of her elbow and stepped out into the hallway to hunt down a washing machine. This hotel was the real deal, not some roach trap off a two-lane interstate. They had to have a washer somewhere.

To her great relief, she only wandered for five minutes before she found the damn thing. Even better, it was credit card rather than quarter-operated. Faith started a load of his dirty clothes, spot-treating the bloody ones with oxy-clean before tossing them in.

By the time she returned to the room, Dean was still in the shower. After knocking once on the bathroom door, Faith pushed her way in to make sure he hadn't tried to drown himself in the bathtub during her absence. Judging by the shadow through the curtain, he had not. The Slayer let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

She dropped a clean T-shirt and pair of boxers on the bathroom counter and addressed the statue that had been her friend, "Hey. Knock on the door when you finish dressing, and I'll come bandage your face." She cleared her throat. "It looks like Castiel missed a spot or two."

Five minutes later, the knock sounded, and Faith returned to the damp heat of the bathroom. Dean was standing there, half-dressed, his t-shirt in his hands, staring into the mirror.

"Here." Reaching up to his shoulders, the Slayer pushed him backwards and down until he sat on the toilet lid. A handful of band-aids in one hand and a tube of antibiotic ointment in the other, Faith moved to stand between the man's knees.

"Does it hurt when I press here?" she asked, pushing the side of her thumb against the largest of the cuts, this one just outside his left eyebrow.

Dean again said nothing, and Faith was left to fix him up as best she could. She smeared ointment and applied butterfly bandages to the worst of the scrapes before setting out a couple tablets of ibuprofen and an empty plastic glass from the main room.

"You should take this."

Interpreting his silence as agreement, Faith left him to go switch the wash over to the dryer. First, however, she rummaged through his duffel bag and confiscated his shaving razor. Just in case. Removing the razor wasn't enough – there were far faster, more lethal weapons in both of their bags and in the trunk of his car, but at least it was a step. And, deep down, Faith knew she could not hide everything. If Dean were, as she feared, truly set on ending himself, he would find a way around all her attempts to protect him.

She came back to find him sitting on the bed closest to the air conditioner, the television remote dangling from his loose grip, the screen black and still. Faith handed him a jimmy-rigged ice pack – ice from the machine down the hall wrapped in a hand towel – for his face. Dean held the towel to his swollen cheek, but he still did not meet her eyes.

_Fine_ , Faith thought angrily. _What do I care?_ But on the inside, she felt sick.

Hair greasy, skin coated in a grimy film made up of sweat and flecks of detergent, the Slayer knew she would never get to sleep unless she cleaned up. She tried to hurry, brushing her teeth under the shower spray, but the hot water proved too seductive. It beckoned her with gentle entreaties, and in the end, even Faith could only stand so much. She broke under the soft patter of the water, allowing it to wash away her tears and drown out the one choked sob that escaped her. Faith brushed her teeth until the gums bled and then leaned against the tiled shower wall as indecision and confusion washed over her.

When at last she emerged and dried off, it was time for the laundry to have finished. The Slayer folded the freshly cleaned clothing on top of the hot dryer. Exhausted, she carried them back to her hotel room and tucked them inside Dean's duffel. He was still staring at the blank television screen.

Faith glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 10:07. She exhaled slowly and walked to the door to find the light switch. "Dean. Lights out." The Slayer flicked the toggle, extinguishing the overhead lights, and made her way back to the bed.

As she leaned over the nightstand lamp in search of the elusive knob, a hand grabbed her wrist, enclosing the thin bones in strong fingers.

"Stay," croaked a voice harsh and dry from disuse.

"I'm not going anywhere." Faith's fingers closed on the cord at last, and she plunged the room into darkness. She attempted to step away to her own bed, but the hand on her wrist drew her up short.

"Stay," Dean repeated. He scooted over to indicate the mattress next to him.

For a moment, Faith perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, a half-dozen complicated emotions bubbling their way to the surface. Then, finally, she lay down and tugged the comforter up over them both. Thin and scratchy, the sheets were warm from his body. The Slayer rolled over onto her left side, turning her back on Dean as he released her wrist. She told herself it was to give him privacy, but in reality if Faith had to look into those empty green eyes for a moment longer, she was likely to punch him in the face.

Dean moved closer to her, and his right arm wrapped itself around her stomach, the heavy weight of it draping over her hip. He clung to her, pulling her tight against him. Faith could feel the solid warmth of his chest against her back and one of his knees poking into her calves.

Despite her frustration, Faith found herself relaxing a fraction. She leaned back into the embrace and brought her left arm up to touch his right, running her fingertips through the short hair covering his forearm. Dean tightened his hold in response. His nose brushed the back of her neck, and each of his exhales ghosted through her wet hair.

"I'm sorry about Sam." She had been thinking the words all afternoon, but only now did Faith find the courage to say them.

His thumb stroked gently across her stomach, a patternless caress over the fabric of her tank top. "Stay," Dean said a third and final time.

Faith shut her eyes and fought the urge to cry. "Okay, Dean." Her voice was huskier than she would have preferred. "I'll stay. As long as you need me to, I'll stay."


	99. Stay, pt 2

* * *

**May 10th, 2010, Columbia, Missouri, 8:30 a.m.**

Dean woke to an armful of Slayer and a mouthful of hair. Opening his eyes, he stared at the standard issue white pillow in front of him and the back of the brunette head resting on it. He twisted his neck to the side and spat out the brown strands that had somehow worked their way onto his tongue. _You can have those back._

His bladder clamoring for his attention, Dean worked his arm free from the Slayer's hold and carefully eased his way out from under the blankets. He desperately needed to take a piss, but relieving the growing pressure in his groin wasn't worth waking up Faith. Not when he still had no idea of what to say to her.

Thankfully, the Slayer did not move as he rolled off the far side of the bed and crept towards the privacy of the bathroom. Once inside, with the door locked behind him, Dean lifted the toilet lid and got down to business. Afterwards, as he washed his hands, he gazed ahead at his reflection in the mirror. His left eye was still a little swollen, and some of the cuts on his face would probably need new bandages soon, but overall, given yesterday's beating, he looked pretty dang good.

Yesterday. The mere thought stung. As long as he did his best to forget, shrouded himself in a gray fog of numb nothing, he could breathe. At first, even that much had been pure agony. His little brother – his baby brother – the obnoxious tight-ass nerd whose diapers he had changed and whose things were currently still in the trunk of his car – he was dead.

Dead and worse than dead. He had thrown himself into Hell and was now trapped in a cage with the very devil himself. And there was nothing Dean could do to rescue him. Sam had made him promise. Made him promise to end their cycle of burning the world down to rescue each other. Made him promise to seek out that apple pie in the sky life. Made him promise to try and settle down, to live the kinda way their mom would have wanted for them.

Funnily enough, right now settling down was the last thing on Dean's mind. There were only two options that he could see, two ways to relieve the unbearable pain gnawing away at his insides. Finding a way to bust his baby brother out of Hell would take longer, and maybe it would be impossible, but at least he would be doing something. As for the other option, well, dying was easy. And maybe he could find Sammy in Hell.

But Sam, perhaps knowing his older brother as well as Dean knew him, had extorted that promise out of him, and there was nothing he could do to change it. He couldn't follow through with either of his two wishes. Cicero it was. At the moment, Dean didn't know who he felt more sorry for: Lisa or himself.

Deciding that that was enough navel-gazing for the present, he dried his hands on one of the too-small hotel towels and returned to the bedroom. Faith was still sleeping, and for half an instant, he considered moving to the unoccupied bed. The air conditioner was blowing heavily, however, and he figured there was no point in wasting energy trying to get warm. He crawled across the mattress and got beneath the covers, reclaiming his former spot beside the Slayer.

The hunter slipped his arm back around her waist and scooted himself closer until the space between them disappeared. Slayer girl tended to run a little cold sometimes, but now her skin was far warmer than his. Propping his head up on his hand, Dean watched Faith's eyelashes fluttering up and down against her cheek as she breathed. Everything hurt right now, and he could barely think from the pain of it, but at least she was still here.

Lost in thought, he almost didn't notice when those eyelashes at last fluttered open and the Slayer turned her head to look at him. "Morning," said Faith in a muffled voice, making no move to get away.

"Morning," he replied, equally subdued, as her brown eyes scanned his.

Faith pushed down against the mattress with her left hand, shifting onto her back to relieve the pressure on her neck. Dean went to retract his arm, but she caught it at the elbow and pulled it back down. "Don't," she rumbled sleepily. "Keeps away the cold."

"Lizard," Dean accused, seeking a way out through small talk.

"Not a lizard," the Slayer insisted, yawning. She reached out a hand blindly for the nightstand, her fingers scrabbling over the wood composite until they closed over her cellphone. Squinting up at the bright screen, Faith scrolled through the long list of missed calls and texts and winced.

"Buffy," she explained when Dean looked at her curiously. "And Lily and Becka and Giles and everyone else. They got worried when they didn't hear from me last night. Ugh. I don't want to deal with this right now."

"Then don't." The hunter captured her phone easily and lobbed it across the room onto the other queen bed. "Talk to them later."

"Mmm." Faith tucked her arm back under the comforter. "I like that plan."

For a while, they lingered there in comfortable silence. Dean watched the Slayer, and the Slayer watched the ceiling, blinking and yawning slowly as she fought to stay awake.

In the back of his mind, the hunter was aware that this whole moment was outside the realm of normal for them. Usually, if he was sharing a bed with Faith, morning found the both of them on opposite sides of the bed, arms and legs sprawled in every direction, the covers pulled taut across their bodies. It didn't seem to matter what position they fell asleep in; the results were always the same. He liked his space, and she liked hers.

This morning was different. Yesterday, everything had changed, yet somehow Faith was the same. At the moment, the Slayer was the only constant in his life. But she could not accompany him to Cicero. So Dean held onto her, memorizing the familiar angles and planes of her body, dreading the time when one of them would step away and walk out that hotel room door.

When a few minutes had passed, he cleared his throat. "Thank you."

Faith did not ask for clarification. Instead, she took her eyes off the ceiling and looked at him. "Remember Nashville?"

Taken aback by the complete non-sequitur, Dean needed half a second to follow her train of thought. Nashville, Nashville – ah. They had spent a week or so there back in the fall of '04. Only six years had passed since then, but it felt like a lifetime. "The vampires in the Grand Ole Opry?" At her nod, he continued, "Yeah, I remember. Why?"

"You remember after?" The intensity in the Slayer's gaze belied the casualness of her words. "That tequila bar?"

He remembered. It was part of their tradition, back then. Finish a job, wander into a bar, find some strangers to hook up with. Leave separately, have fun with whoever the town in question had to offer, meet back at their motel room in the morning. It had been a good system. "The place with all the drunken karaoke. You decided to sing Shania Twain. I had no idea you liked country."

"I didn't like country. I still don't like country. I was trying to impress some cowboy with a belt buckle the size of his bicep. G-d, I can't even remember his name now. Anyway, he was hot, and he was into me, and I was gonna go home with him. But then something distracted me. You got up, took the mike, started in on a Bob Seger song to seal the deal with a girl. Which one was it again?"

"We've Got Tonight," Dean answered shortly. He knew where the ending of this story was headed, but he couldn't quite guess at her point for bringing it up. That night had been the one of the rare times when they broke their tradition of leaving a bar with strangers and went home with each other instead.

"Yeah." Faith leaned her head back against the hotel pillow and smiled. "I know it's late," she half-hummed, half-sang under her breath. "I know you're weary. I know your pla-ans don't include meeee."

"That's when you caught my attention," she added, pushing herself up onto her elbow. "You were so into that song, way beyond cheesy, singing your heart out to that chick. You were heading into the chorus, and I was thinking about those Stetson-wearing vamps back at the Opry, and then I realized that, hey, you and I made a halfway decent team. And then you glanced up my way at the beginning of the second verse, and I started thinking about something else entirely."

Dean didn't say anything. He remembered that, too. _Deep in my soul, I've been so lonely,_ he had sang right as their eyes met. He remembered the cool speculation and that knowing smile, a sharp contrast to the overly eager girl sitting in the front row. He remembered deciding that tonight, he'd rather have the challenge than the sure bet. He remembered edging his way in between Faith and her (actual) cowboy, gripping her by the waist and crushing his mouth against hers, before the rest of the night faded in a tequila-flavored haze..

"But I was right, you know," Faith continued. "About us. Hunting with you, it's easy. It's fun. I can be me – whoever that is – not the eighteen-year-old version of myself that Buffy's always half-expecting to be. We make one hell of a team, Dean. You and me, we're like frickin' Starbuck and Apollo. Only without all the tragic doomed romance crap. And, honestly, there's nobody I'd rather have at my back."

She waited a beat, and when he made no response, picked up the threads of her speech again. This time, her tone grew wistful. "But it's not gonna be that way, is it?" she said quietly, glancing down from his eyes to stare at the hollow of his throat, at the blank space where Sam's amulet had once hung. "You've got to go to Cicero. And they need me on the Hellmouth."

"Faith –" he started apologetically.

"Shhh." The Slayer held a single finger up in the space between them. Her gaze darted back up to his face. "Let me finish, cowboy. Look, if anyone in this miserable monster-hunting business deserves a chance to retire, it's you, Dean. You've been fighting since you were a kid, and those evil sons of bitches have taken pretty much everything from you that they possibly could. You deserve to get out, if anyone does. So go. Take your exit package and find Lisa and get the hell out of this cycle of death and blood and pain."

"I don't even know that she'll have me," Dean mumbled, keeping his eyes fixed on the mattress beneath him.

Catching him by the chin, Faith forced him to look upwards. "Hey," she said firmly. "She'd be an idiot not to. You just saved the friggin' world."

"Yeah." Dean rolled away from her and stared at the popcorned ceiling above them, as if the answers to the universe were contained in the textured paint and plaster. He really ought to say something more, explain what was running through his head. It wasn't that he was choosing Lisa over Faith, he wanted to say. More that he simply could not endure another day like yesterday. Yesterday, his brother had been alive. Today, he was gone.

The words crowded behind his teeth, jockeying against each other as they struggled to get out. In the end, however, all that he said was, "This place do breakfast?"

"Pretty sure they do." Faith's tone was neutral. "But I think it closes in half an hour. You want to go down?"

"I could eat."

"Me, too." The Slayer sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. "Let's go," she said as she walked across the room. Picking up her neatly folded brassiere from its place atop her backpack, she began sliding it on beneath her tank top. "Get some pants on."

Dean followed her lead, retrieving a clear pair of jeans from his duffel and shoving his feet first into socks and then into his boots. By the time he finished buckling his belt, Faith was waiting by the door, the white plastic room key in her hand.

"Come on," she insisted, her early seriousness forgotten, dancing in place as she rubbed her belly. "My stomach's eating its way out through my spine."

"Liar," he retorted easily as they headed down the carpeted hallway towards the elevator. While they waited for it to arrive, he said, "Hey, can I ask you one thing?"

Faith glanced at him, her tousled brown hair flipping over her shoulder. "Go for it."

"Can you . . ." Dean swallowed and then started again. "What I mean to say is . . . If you wouldn't mind sticking around the States for the next couple of months, I'd, uh, I'd appreciate it. Just in case."

The Slayer gave him a small smile, and the sympathy and understanding in her expression were almost too much to bear. "Of course," she promised. "I'll be around." The wall dinged behind them as their ride arrived, drawing her attention. "Now hurry and get your ass moving into that elevator. I'm friggin' starving."


	100. White Picket Fences, pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the delay, folks. Real life got ahold of me again. Next chapter should be up sometime next week. Thanks for sticking along with the fic!

* * *

**May 28th, 2010, Cicero, Indiana**

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 12:30 p.m.  
Message:

Hey.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 12:32 p.m.  
Message:

Earth to Winchester, come in Winchester. Where the hell have you been? I'm pulling my hair out over here.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 12:35 p.m.  
Message:

I'm fine. U ok?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 12:38 p.m.  
Message:

I've been texting you for the last week and half. You had like two more days before I was going to declare a state of general emergency.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 12:41 p.m.  
Message:

Why didn't you?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 12:44 p.m.  
Message:

Becka set up monitoring on all the hospitals in the Cicero area . . . and maybe I routed the area police scanner to my email.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 12:47 p.m.  
Message:

That all you did?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 12:52 p.m.  
Message:

I may have lojacked your car back in Missouri.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 12:54 p.m.  
Message:

Dammit, Faith.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 12:57 p.m.  
Message:

Not sorry. Why didn't you answer?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 12:59 p.m.  
Message:

My phone was off – had it forwarding all calls to Bobby's. Turned it back on today – Lisa told me I couldn't put off facing things.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 1:05 p.m.  
Message:

So things are good there?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 1:09 p.m.  
Message:

They're fine. Ben's a good kid. Lisa's great. I'm a frakking head case, but you knew that already.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 1:12 p.m.  
Message:

You're not a head case. Glad things are working out.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 1:16 p.m.  
Message:

Yeah. Surprise, surprise. I haven't managed to screw this up yet. Give me a few more weeks, though.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 1:18 p.m.  
Message:

You wanna talk?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 1:20 p.m.  
Message:

Not really. Gotta go back out job-hunting. Another one of Lisa's ideas.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 1:25 p.m.  
Message:

I'm starting to like her already.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 1:29 p.m.  
Message:

You would. Where are you these days?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 1:34 p.m.  
Message:

Cleveland.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 1:37 p.m.  
Message:

Again?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 1:40 p.m.  
Message:

Hellmouth. It needs me.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 1:44 p.m.  
Message:

Doesn't it have at least two other Slayers? What about Becka and Lily? I thought they were decent.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 1:46 p.m.  
Message:

They are. They're good Slayers.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 1:48 p.m.  
Message:

But?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 1:50 p.m.  
Message:

Let's just say that I've got certain things that they don't.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 1:53 p.m.  
Message:

Like what – osteoporosis?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 1:55 p.m.  
Message:

Geez. Thanks, Dean. Right ray of sunshine you are.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 1:57 p.m.  
Message:

Sorry. Guess I've kinda forgotten how to make a joke lately.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 2:03 p.m.  
Message:

No kidding. Anyway, what I was going to say is that I've got the name and the reputation. They're good Slayers, but they're not "the Slayer."

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 2:05 p.m.  
Message:

"the Slayer" referring to either you or Buffy?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 2:09 p.m.  
Message:

You got it. So I'm back on the Hellmouth, striking fear into the hearts of demons and vamps alike. Standard stuff, but it feels good.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 2:11 p.m.  
Message:

Good to hear. Hey, I'm fixing to head out. I'll call you sometime in the next couple of weeks, okay?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 2:15 p.m.  
Message:

You'd better.

. . . .

* * *

**June 13th, 2010, Cleveland, Ohio, 5:30 p.m.**

"You WHAT?"

"Ouch. Jeez, Dean. Yell a little louder next time, why don't you? I'm pretty sure they almost couldn't hear you all the way in Omaha." Wincing, the Slayer held her phone six inches away from her ear.

"One more time – you did what?"

Even with half a foot of space, his voice was still too loud. Faith set the phone on the coffee table and returned to cleaning her revolver. "That's it. You're grounded to speakerphone. It wasn't really that big of a nest. Just seven fangs. Barely even broke a sweat."

"You didn't think to call for backup?"

"Lily had an audition this morning, and Becka has a big midterm coming up in her summer class."

"And there's no one else in all of Cleveland who coulda pitched in?"

"Robin quit the game after his third child was born. Spike's back in San Fran with Buffy and company. Angel and Fred are in London. Who else was there to call?"

Dean ground his teeth into the phone. "Faith –"

Faith spun the chamber on her Smith & Wesson, dropping empty casings into the palm of her outstretched hand. "Not a big deal, Dean-o. How was work?"

"It's a basic construction gig. Nothing fancy. But it keeps me in shape, keeps me out of the house during the day."

"Lisa finally make an honest worker out of you? No more credit cards?"

He snorted. "No more credit cards. Just used it for one last thing – the down payment on a truck and some tools. Lisa offered to lend me the cash, but . . . it just didn't feel right."

"Mmm." The Slayer dropped the revolver onto the couch beside her and reached for her crossbow. She desperately needed to oil the firing mechanism. Not that she would ever tell Dean this, but the spring had caught last night, almost turning her easy seven-vamp stake parade into a much trickier situation. "I get it," she said aloud. "Much better to scam the government than ask your new live-in girlfriend for a loan. Am I warm?"

"Thing is, Faith, I don't know if this is going to work out. I want it to. I really want it to. But in case it doesn't, in case some demon shows up on the doorstep with an axe to grind, and I've got to take it out and then take off again, I don't want Lisa goin' too far out of her way for me. Know what I mean?"

"Look, Dean. If a demon shows up on your doorstep with an axe to grind, you call me. We make shish-kebabs outta the sucker, and you go back to living in Barbie's dreamhouse. From what you've said, it sounds like Lisa's pretty awesome. You don't give up on awesome just because some nasty tries to ruin it for you."

"Thanks for that, Dr. Phil."

"You know I'm right," Faith said. Although her tone was pleasant enough, an edge of steel ran behind the joviality.

"Fine. You're right." The hunter cleared his throat. "I'm about to pull into the driveway. Catch you later?"

Yawning heavily into the phone, she nodded. "You got it, chief. Tell that girlfriend of yours hello for me?"

Dean hesitated before awkwardly admitting, "Uh, here's the thing . . ."

"Lemme guess – she doesn't know I exist," commented Faith dryly.

"Uh . . ."

The Slayer rolled her eyes as she continued fiddling with her crossbow. "You're going to have to tell her eventually, Dean."

"I know that. It's just . . . I'm still trying to get my head wrapped around everything, you know?"

"Mmm." Knowing that this was probably the most coherent answer she was going to get, Faith decided not to pick this particular battle. Besides, it was almost time for her pre-Slayage afternoon nap. "Okay," she concluded with barely suppressed skepticism. "I'd better go. Have a good night, cowboy."

"You, too."

* * *

**June 16th, 2010, Cleveland, Ohio, 2:15 a.m.**

Faith had just finished patrolling three of Cleveland's more ill-kempt cemeteries when her phone started vibrating angrily in her pocket. Sliding behind the wheel of her latest junker, an old Ford that was more rust than anything else, she fished the buzzing piece of plastic out of her back pocket. A glance at caller ID sent nervousness whizzing through her insides.

"It's the middle of the night," she said tersely. "What's wrong?"

"Can't sleep," came the gruff response. "Last couple days, whenever I get into bed and close my eyes, I'm back there."

The Slayer made an astute guess. "Back in Hell?"

"Yeah. It's always the same, every damn time. It's a session with Alastair – a particular session. Thirty years of them, and they all kinda blur together in the back of my head, you know. But this one night's always stood out – it was the session before the one where I changed my mind. He's . . ." Dean swallowed loudly. "He's cuttin' into me, but by this point he's gotten bored. Says he's seen pretty much everything he needs to see, done pretty much everything he feels like doing. Except for one thing."

Holding her breath, Faith said nothing. Despite their hours of past conversation, he had never gotten quite this detailed about his forty years in Hell. At the time, the Slayer hadn't seen much point in pressing the issue. He'd get around to it if and when he felt ready. In the meanwhile, she possessed a vivid enough imagination to guess at the horrors he'd experienced.

Dean gulped again, his breathing coming a little heavier than usual, and went on, "This time, he's dissecting me. Making it all clinical, teaching his apprentices. He's taking his time, starting out with my hands and feet. I . . . I don't even have words for how bad that hurts. But then, when he's got my arms and legs filleted down to the bone, he makes one of those autopsy Y-incisions and starts eviscerating me. Guts, liver, kidneys . . . All of it goes, until he finally gets around to my lungs, and then my heart. Thing is, if this wasn't Hell, you'd have died from the pain a thousand times over. But since you're already dead, you can't die again."

Her fingers clenching the wheel in a death grip, the Slayer mumbled, "Oh, God."

"Yeah," Dean responded, his voice hitching with mild hysteria. "Look, Faith, that dream's nothing new. I've . . . I've been having it since Cass yanked me outta that place. It's not usually quite this frequent, but it pops up at least once a month. Like clockwork. I've almost gotten used to it. The last few weeks, though, it's changed."

"What changed?"

The hunter exhaled shakily. "It's not me gettin' cut into. It's Sam. And it isn't Alastair doing the cutting. It's me."

* * *

**June 19th, 2010, Cicero, Indiana, 3:01 a.m.**

The grandfather clock downstairs chimed loudly, its three tolls echoing through the house as it sounded out the hour. Although quiet, the sound was enough to roust Lisa from her fitful sleep. She listened to the last chime of the clock, scrunched up her eyes tighter, and scooted over against the warm bulk that was her new housemate. When her shoulders collided only with cold, empty air, the woman reluctantly opened her eyes and sat up.

For the third night in a row, he had vanished again. Lisa grit her teeth, fighting off frustration. She knew exactly what she would find in the morning – Dean, passed out on the living room couch, his cell phone and an empty longneck on the coffee table beside him. Pursing her lips, Lisa debated if it was worth getting out of bed to go find him.

Something was up. While she was still learning how to read the fine details of this man's moods, Lisa was sure of at least that much. He tended to be very close-mouthed about what exactly had happened immediately prior to his showing up on her doorstep. Other than the fact his brother had died in some big, dangerous, world-saving moment, Lisa knew very little about the monsters that had chased him to her. She had no idea if she could coax him into sharing what was bothering him, but she knew that she had to try.

The woman climbed out of bed, pausing only long enough to grab a fleecy bathrobe from her closet and wrap it around herself. With the AC going full blast, her nightdress felt too thin against the summer night. She eased her bedroom door open carefully. Ben could be a light sleeper sometimes, and the last thing she wanted was to drag him into this.

As she padded softly along the hallway toward the staircase, the strains of Dean's low voice reached her. Lisa paused at the top of the stairs to listen.

"Hang on," he was mumbling quietly. "Phone's dying. I've gotta get the landline. I'll call you back in a sec."

She could hear him shuffling around the living room and then the faint plastic click as he removed the cordless phone from its cradle by the television. A few moments of silence passed, and then he spoke again, his words carrying easily throughout the still house. "Hey. How's your night going?"

Struck by curiosity, Lisa listened for a minute or two longer to the one-sided small talk going on downstairs. There was something . . . different about his voice. Something she wasn't sure if she had heard yet. He wasn't drunk; he was just different. After a furious internal debate, she abandoned her better judgement.

Returning to the bedroom, the woman reached for the other cordless phone. She held her finger down over the switch hook on the receiver while she tapped the 'on' button and slipped onto the line.

"I don't think you're hearing me right," drawled an alto female voice, a little hoarse and smoky. Her worst fears confirmed, Lisa's eyes widened, and she nearly dropped the cordless.

Downstairs, Dean chuckled into the phone. "I think I heard you exactly right," he countered, sounding much more relaxed than he had been all that past week. "You're saying that despite all their superpowers, I'm still better than the mini-Slayers."

_Slayers_? What the hell was a Slayer? Lisa held the phone closer to her ear, in case she had misheard.

"No," the other woman said with mild irritation that even Lisa could tell was feigned. "What I'm saying is that we've worked together enough that I know which way you're going to jump."

"So I'm predictable?" the man teased.

"Didn't say that either."

"But you are saying that you missed me." Dean's voice hitched up at the end of the sentence, turning it into a half-question.

The strange woman on the other end of the line gave an exasperated snort. "I really got to put that in words?"

Dean snickered. "You're what? Twenty-nine going on thirty? You can use your words."

"Fine," said the woman. "I miss you. There. That soothe your savage ego?"

"It's a start."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, just breathing quietly into the phone. Lisa tightened her hand over the mouthpiece on the receiver. If Dean realized she was listening in on one of his secret conversations . . . The discussion that followed would not be a pretty one, to say the least.

After a while, the woman cleared her throat. When she next spoke, her tone had changed, becoming lower and softer. "How are the dreams?"

"Not getting any better," admitted Dean gruffly. "Why do you think I'm still waking you up every night?"

"I figured it wasn't just for the pleasure of listening to me yawn," replied the woman. "You tell Lisa about them yet?"

"Nope. She doesn't . . . I can't . . . Ugh," he sighed, and glass clinked against glass near his end of the phone.

"Words, Dean," the stranger reminded him, but her voice was kind.

"It's just that she doesn't know about any of this stuff," Dean said wearily. "You know? I haven't told her any of the details about what it is that I do, what it is that Sam and I used to do. She doesn't know my brother threw himself into Hell to stop Lucifer. She doesn't know that I spend half my time imagining all the monsters I've ganked and what any of 'em would do if they got a chance to get their hands on her and Ben. She doesn't know that every time I close my eyes I see somebody dying – her, Ben, Sam, Mom, Dad, Bobby, Jo, Ellen, you . . ."

The woman hesitated a few seconds before answering. "Dean," she said with a gentleness that surprised Lisa. "God, cowboy. You never make it easy on yourself, do you?"

Without waiting for him to reply, she continued, "First off, any monster comes after me, I'll send its ass straight to Perdition. So no need to worry about me. Second, you're gonna have to tell her sometime. I mean, from what you've said, she sounds pretty sharp. I wouldn't be surprised if she already suspects something's wrong."

Dean coughed. "Yeah. You're probably right. The last few days . . . Between you and the Guinness, I don't end up getting back upstairs before I fall asleep. But what am I supposed to say, Faith? You and me, the things we dream about, they'd send any rational person running away screaming."

"I didn't say tell her all the gritty details, Winchester. Just . . . whatever big picture simplified version of the thing you think she can handle. You don't want to lose her."

"I know. Which is why I've been trying to be better. Trying to be more normal. When I first got here, I was . . . It wasn't good, Faith. You know that. But now, it's been long enough – shouldn't I be better now? Shouldn't I be able to be more, I dunno, more normal?"

"Grief has its own rules," countered the woman – Faith? – stubbornly. "You can't rush it. And, honestly, Dean, I'm impressed you're doing as well as you are. If I'd had somebody like Sam and I lost 'em, I'd . . . well, it wouldn't be pretty. Hell, back when Lilith's mutts dragged you off, I dove straight into a bottle and never looked back. Alcohol and rescuing you were all I could think about."

"Faith . . ."

"Speaking of rescuing, I've been using my Winchester-free time to do some digging. There's a surprising amount of lore on Hell dimensions, you know. Maybe if I wade through enough of it, I'll find some obscure ramblings from a monk in the Dark Ages that'll teach us how to yank that giant brother of yours outta the Cage."

"Faith. I promised Sam that I'd –"

The woman rode right on over him. "I know what you promised, Dean. But I didn't. If there's a way to safely free his soul from being trapped with the Devil, I'll find it, and we'll take it. End of discussion."

Exhaling deeply, the man said, "I don't deserve you."

"This isn't about deserving. It's about rescuing Sam. Now, it's almost four in the morning. Why don't you put down that beer you're probably chugging, get your ass off the couch, and go back upstairs to Lisa?"

"That an order?" he joked feebly.

"I need to make it one?"

"No . . . Thank you."

She yawned heavily. "Anytime. Good night, Dean."

The phones clicked off, and Lisa was left holding her cordless phone, listening to the insistent beeping of the dial tone. For half an instant, she stood there frozen as she tried to wrap her mind around all that she had heard. Then came the soft tread of footsteps on the staircase, and she rushed into action.

Abandoning the cordless back on its cradle, she slipped back beneath the covers and rolled onto her side so that she faced away from the door. A minute or so later, the bedroom door creaked open and the mattress dipped as Dean resumed his position next to her. The man slowly scooted his way across the bed until he was curled up against her back. Heavy and warm, one of his arms draped itself across her hip. He smelled faintly of alcohol.

Lisa pretended to be lost deep in sleep, but behind her closed eyelids, her mind raced. She had woken up with questions, most of which had been answered, at least to some degree, by her eavesdropping. And yet somehow she found herself more confused and uncertain than ever.


	101. White Picket Fences, pt 2

* * *

**June 20th, 2010, Cicero, Indiana, 6:30 a.m.**

When the sun finally peeked in through the master bedroom window, it found Lisa in much the same state of confusion as she had been the night before. In the few hours that had passed, she had been inundated by strange dreams of Dean and his brother fighting off some great shadowy foe, aided and abetted by a stranger. Lisa could tell the stranger was female from her voice and the outlines of her clothing. But she never once saw her face.

"Good morning," sounded Dean's voice just over her left shoulder.

"Hi." Lisa rolled over. Her eyes swept his expression from forehead to chin. He looked haggard, exhausted, the harsh lines at the corners of his mouth more pronounced than usual. "You sleep okay?" she asked impulsively, heedless of the trap inherent in her words.

"Not really," Dean rumbled. He was watching her carefully. When he next spoke, it came out tentative, almost fearful. "I'm . . . Lisa, I've got to be honest with you. I'm not doing so hot."

"I know," she said, the response easy and simple. She did not add any of the half-dozen remarks at the back of her mind. _I heard you last night. Who is she? What does she mean to you? Why can you talk to her but not to me?_

Dean glanced away. "I'm sorry," he mumbled to the bedsheets beneath them. "I thought . . . I don't know what I thought, Lise. Sometimes, without Sam, I guess I just feel lost. Like I'm missing an arm and I don't know how to live without it."

"He was your brother. You loved him." But there was more to it than that, Lisa knew, even if she did not quite have the words for it.

"Yeah." Dean grew silent, and the moment passed.

For the next two weeks or so, he seemed to rally. Although Dean was quieter, every morning when Lisa woke, he was right there laying next to her. The refrigerator only needed to be stocked with beer once a week instead of every three days. Lisa found fewer occult webpages open on her computer. Dean took Ben out in the yard or to the local park to toss around a baseball almost every night. He was present, he was there, he was _with_ her.

There were still the little things. When he pulled into the driveway at the end of the day, she caught him sitting in his truck and talking on his cell phone, quiet, hushed calls that always ended before he came inside. He was protective of that particular piece of electronics and plastic, rarely letting it out of his sight. Some nights, he sat on the couch, staring at nothing, until she called him upstairs. And when he made love to her, an edge of desperation lingered behind his kisses and caresses.

On the whole, however, things were better. Lisa pushed her concerns about that Faith woman – whoever she was – to the back of her mind and tried to move on.

July Fourth came and with it her family's annual barbecue. This year, it was being held at her cousin Julia's house a few hours south of Chicago. At first Lisa felt some mild trepidation. It had been a long time since she brought a date to a family event – much less a boyfriend. But things with Dean were going good – and he was so great with Ben. She decided it was worth the risk.

The barbecue started off well. Dean managed to charm her family without a single hitch. He made it seem effortless, the way he won over her most suspicious aunt and even held a ten minute conversation with her dad without anyone yelling. He mixed, he mingled, he could grill hamburgers to the perfect degree of medium rare, and gradually Lisa's fears began to subside. She found herself calming, and her eagle-eyed surveillance of Dean's every move slowly relaxed into nothing.

It was brushing eight o'clock, and Ben was running around helping his grandfather set up the fireworks, when Julia asked where Dean was. Suddenly, Lisa realized that she had not seen him in over an hour. She began searching for him discreetly, checking first the car and then the kitchen.

In the end, she found him in Julia's upstairs guest bathroom. Behind the locked door, his voice rose and fell, just above a whisper. Lisa waited there for five minutes, arms folded across her chest, until the phone call ended and he stepped outside.

"Lise," he started, rocking back on his heels in surprise when he saw her. "I, uh . . ."

She had finally run out of patience. "Who was on the phone, Dean?" When he did not instantly reply, she pressed angrily, "Was that Faith?"

"How do you –"

"I heard you talking to her in the living room the other night. Who is she?"

Cornered, trapped between the bathroom doorframe and her body, Dean swallowed. His prominent Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "She's a friend. Another hunter. She knew Sam," he added as if that could explain things.

"We need to go watch the fireworks," said Lisa in a flat, firm tone, ignoring the rising panic in his eyes. "And then I want you to call her back. Tell her to come to Cicero for a visit. I think she and I should meet."

* * *

**July 9th, 2010, Cicero, Indiana, 7:00 p.m.**

The doorbell rang, and Lisa's stomach flip-flopped. Now was the moment. She glanced up from the stove, over the top of her son's head, and met Dean's gaze. To her slight satisfaction, he looked nearly as apprehensive as she felt.

Perhaps sensing the tension in the room, Ben stopped setting the table and turned his head back and forth between the two adults.

"Mom, you want me to get the door?"

"That's okay, buddy," said Dean hurriedly. "I got it." He scuttled out of the kitchen, and the clomping of his work boots across the entry tile felt ominous.

Across the house, the hinges squeaked as the front door opened. Someone – a woman – Faith, Lisa reminded herself, spoke. The hushed voices carried easily through the downstairs.

"Hey."

"Hey. You want me to get that?"

"No, it's okay."

That was _it_? Lisa's insides clenched uncomfortably as the two sets of footsteps approached the kitchen. Now that it was running down to the wire, she wasn't entirely sure of this. It was definitely starting to feel like a far worse idea than it had a few days ago. She looked down into the skillet of sautéing broccoli on the stovetop and gave the vegetables a half-hearted prod with her spatula. As Dean and his guest entered the room, Lisa turned around to face them.

She took stock of the strange woman in one long, sweeping glance. Shorter than Lisa by a good few inches, the newcomer looked almost diminutive next to Dean. Clad in dark jeans and darker leather, the woman balanced a large cardboard box on one hip, a six-pack of Stella Artois perched atop it. Her brown eyes were nearly lost in a swathe of black mascara and blacker eyeliner, but not even the heavy makeup could hid the crow's feet at their corners.

The stranger met Lisa's gaze with cool appraisal. Without looking, she shoved her box and her beer into Dean's side. The hunter caught them automatically.

"Hi," said the woman, stepping around Ben at the kitchen table and extending a callused hand. "I'm Faith."

"Lisa."

Faith's hand was surprisingly warm. Her fingers squeezed Lisa's once, briefly, and then the woman whirled on her heel. "And you must be Ben."

"Hi," replied Ben, although from his tone he might as well have said, 'Who are you?'

She answered the unspoken question. "I'm a friend of Dean's," the stranger explained to the boy. "We used to hunt monsters together. And when I say 'we,' I mean I used to hunt monsters and save this one's hide." She jerked her thumb in the direction of the hunter as she retreated back across the kitchen towards him.

"Dean didn't tell me much about the menu, so I brought this." She lifted the six-pack out of Dean's arms and set it on the table. "Figured beer goes with everything," she added with a shrug.

"What is the box?" Ben asked curiously.

"Books." Dean tilted the edge of the cardboard box down enough so that Ben could peer over the side at its contents, a series of heavy manuals bound in red and black leather.

Faith frowned. "Those are for you," she reminded him sharply. "Not exactly PG."

Lisa raised her eyebrows. "Books?"

"A few references I had lying around. Thought Dean might find them useful." Faith shrugged. "I've mostly been using them as a coffee table."

The newcomer and Dean exchanged glances then, and an undercurrent of something passed between them. The hunter ducked his head to the side, a wry smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

"Anyway . . ." Faith looked back to Lisa. "How can I help with dinner?"

* * *

"Where did you get these?" Dean mumbled softly. He flipped through one of his new presents, the gold-leafed pages sliding by beneath his thumb.

Faith settled on the large gray couch next to him, a glass of water in her hand. If she planned on driving halfway back to Cleveland tonight, she needed to hydrate. "They were part of Wes's old library. I've only scanned them a bit. They've got a lot on Hell dimensions, but the old Satanic monks weren't sold on the concept of an index, so I have no idea if they mention the Cage."

Lifting her head, she glanced at the staircase with its gracefully curving oaken bannister. Lisa had disappeared moments previous to make sure Ben was actually going to bed, but she would be returning soon, and the Slayer had no interest in being caught in a potentially compromising position. With that in mind, she scooted a short distance further along the couch until she was an entire cushion's length away from him.

If Dean noticed, he chose not to comment, instead continuing his perusal of the red leather-bound tome. Faith tossed back another gulp of water and watched him read. In the almost two months since she had last seen him, the hunter had lost weight – not that he'd had much of that to spare before. The angles of his jaw were sharper, his cheeks almost hollow beneath his five o'clock shadow, and his customary button-down shirt gaped open a little bit more than it had previously.

They sat in silence, while Dean greedily searched the pages for any mention of the Cage and Faith cast about helplessly for something meaningful to say. Before she could formulate her thoughts into coherence, the creaking of feet on the stairs announced Lisa's return.

At her approach, the hunter closed his book and set it back inside the heavy cardboard box with its fellows. "He go down okay?" he asked.

Lisa slipped easily into the open spot on the couch between Faith and Dean. She leaned against the man's side, and he wrapped an arm around her. "Didn't even complain about the lack of video games tonight." She tilted her head upwards, and the two kissed briefly.

The Slayer observed this with a smirk. When Dean and Lisa broke apart, she pushed herself up to her feet. "Well, I'd better get going," she said. "It was great to meet you, Lisa. And thanks again for dinner."

"I'm so glad you enjoyed it. And it was very nice to meet you as well," smiled the taller brunette.

"Hang on." Dean retracted his arm from Lisa's shoulders and stood. "It's after nine. You gonna drive the whole night through?"

Faith narrowed her eyes at him. As ideas went, it wasn't as out there as he was trying to make it sound. "That was the plan."

"Why don't . . ." The hunter's gaze flicked back and forth between the two women. "Why don't you stay here? Head out first thing in the morning. If that's okay with you, of course," he added belatedly, turning to Lisa for her approval.

Momentarily taken aback, Lisa hastily regained her composure. "Of course. I'm afraid we don't have a guest bedroom, but I can make up the couch for you, if you would like."

Well. Driving in the daylight definitely beat driving through the night. Besides, Faith had already done one long stint along the highway today, and eight hours of shut-eye before she slid back behind the wheel of her junker wouldn't be a bad idea. And if Dean wanted her to stick around longer . . .

"Thanks. That's very kind of you," she addressed Lisa.

"Not at all. Any friend of Dean's . . ."

* * *

**July 10th, 2010, Cicero, Indiana, 2:30 a.m.**

Ever since she was a child, Lisa had had one recurring nightmare. It always began the same way, on a trip with her family to the aquarium. And it always ended the same way, too, with six-year-old Lisa falling into a shark tank. Just as she had a half-hundred times before, the woman woke in a cold sweat, her head filled with images of razor sharp teeth arranged in several flesh-tearing rows and the lazy crimson swirl of blood in water.

Once again, the bed beside her was deserted. Lisa slumped back against her pillows, tugging her comforter up to her chin. Honestly, she wasn't even surprised this time. In some way, from the moment Dean had suggested his 'friend' stay the night, a series of nasty suspicions had started creeping their way into her mind.

She lay there for a long moment and wondered where he was, if he was downstairs with his ex-girlfriend, if the two of them had snuck into the garage for privacy. Lisa wasn't a hundred percent sure that that designation was the correct one, but if Dean and that woman hadn't slept together at least once in the past, her female intuition was not worth a red cent. It was in his eyes, in the way he watched her with interest and a warmth that Lisa had only seen there around herself and Ben.

When her frustration and curiosity finally became too much to bear, Lisa grabbed her water glass from the nightstand and starting creeping her way along the hallway towards the staircase. That way, if either of them spotted her, she could use the empty glass as an excuse. She'd had a nasty dream about being eaten by sharks. And now she was thirsty. It was a completely logical explanation.

As she neared the head of the stairs, quiet voices drifted up to her. Lisa lowered her feet carefully onto the top step and then the one below that, avoiding the spots where the stair always creaked. She tiptoed down until she could peer into the living room. Thankfully, the back of the couch faced the stairway, and the living room's two occupants could not see her.

The blankets and sheets that she had provided for Faith lay in a crumpled pile at the far end of the couch, and the woman was stretched out along its length, her chin propped up on her elbow. Dean sat on the carpet in front of the sofa, his arms locked about his knees, his head resting against the edge of the couch cushions.

"You look like shit," said Faith in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. "I mean, you kinda sounded like shit on the phone, but I had no idea it was this bad. Lisa not making you eat your vegetables?"

Dean avoided her pale attempt at humor. "It's not the vegetables that're the problem," he grumbled. "It's the dreams. It's me."

"Winchester . . ." Sympathy turned his last name into a term of endearment. "What do you need?"

He snorted derisively. "What I don't need? I'd take my brother back, for starters. That'd . . . That'd be the one thing that . . . But since that can't ever happen, I don't have a single frakking clue, Faith. I don't know what I need. I try and I try not to think about it. I know he's not coming back. I know there's not a goddamned thing I can do about it. I know that me – the way I've been – I know it's hell for Lisa and not good for Ben. And I'd give anything I could to be better, for them. But this's killing me, Faith." His voice dropped into a whisper. "I think it's killing me."

The woman said nothing, giving him space to think and to finish. From her place on the stairs, Lisa's stomach dropped down into her feet. Dean had never once told her this. He had apologized for his occasionally aberrant behavior, but he had never successfully explained why. And now, here it was. All the explanations she had longed to ask for.

After a beat of silence, Dean continued, "I've tried everything I can think of. I've prayed to God, to Cass, to any angel out there who might have their ears on. Nothing. The douchebags upstairs don't give a shit. Not about me, not about my brother. Not about all the heaps and heaps of utter crap that he and I went through, to stop Lucifer, to save the world, to protect people from their nightmares and ours.

"And . . . And I don't know how much more I can take, Faith. I've done everything, and it still isn't good enough to help Sam. I can't even find a way to bust his soul to Heaven. Not even to bring him back, just to get him out of that Cage and send him upstairs to Mom, to Jess, where he belongs. And . . . and I can't help but think that this is all my fault, that if I'd been a little faster, a little stronger, a little better – none of this would have happened. If I hadn't broken under Alastair, if I coulda just been a little more like my dad, Sam would still be alive. And I can't forgive myself for that."

Abandoning her position on the couch, the brunette lowered herself onto the floor beside him. Lisa watched from the stairs as she settled right up against Dean, until there was no clear outline of space in between them. The woman reached for Dean's wrist, enclosing his hand in both of her smaller ones.

"This was not your fault, Dean." Though soft, her tone was firm. "This was never your fault. You and Sam, you got screwed from behind by the Frakking Awful Powers That Be. You . . . You have nothing to forgive yourself for."

"It's just . . . I miss him, Faith. I miss all his stupid jokes and his smug face and how he'd get all prissy and bitchy when I took too long in the shower or flirted with a waitress. He's always been there, you know. Ever since I was four. Even when he was off at Stanford, he was still there in my head. And it was always a question of when Dad and I would get him back, not if. But now he's gone. I keep thinking one day I'm gonna wake up and it'll hurt less, but it never does. It never does."

"Then we'll get him back." The woman said the words with simple self-assurance. "I mean it, Dean. We won't stop. We'll keep looking. We'll get him back."

"We?" mumbled the man faintly.

"We," Faith repeated with emphasis. "I know . . . I know I'm not your brother. But for whatever it's worth, I'm sticking with you through this. I'm not gonna . . . Dean, you don't have to face this alone. I'm right here."

Voice strained, he asked quietly, "Why? I'm not . . . I can't even help you out with your Slayer stuff anymore. I'm . . . People around me get hurt, Faith. You should just cut your losses and run. So should Lisa."

The woman shook her head. "You're my friend. And that means something. Friends don't let friends walk through hell – literal or figurative – by themselves. Long as you need me, I'm not going anywhere. Long as you want to fight to get Sam back, I'm gonna be right there fighting beside you."

"Like you did when Angel was hell-bent on resurrecting your old friend Giles?"

"I'm hoping this won't bring your brother back as a teenager, because from what you've said, he was even prissier when he was thirteen, but yes. Like that, I guess."

The man hesitated before replying, "Angel's lucky to have a friend like you. So'm I."

"You'd do the exact same thing for me, if the roles were different. So no need for any chick flick moments. You think you can go back to your own bed? This girl needs her beauty sleep," she pointed out kindly.

Dean rose. Extending a hand, he pulled the woman up from the carpet, and then he tugged her in for a quick, tight embrace. "Thank you, Faith."

She stepped back as he released her. Lisa straightened out of her crouch and prepared to flee back to the bedroom. Their final words followed her as she tiptoed up the stairs.

"For what?" said the woman.

"For making me better."

* * *

**July 10th, 2010, Cicero, Indiana, 6:45 a.m.**

Faith decided to peel off first thing in the morning. Her phone alarm sounded around six-thirty, and the Slayer instantly silenced it before it could get out more than two rings. She used the bathroom and washed her face in the sink, then folded the sheets and set them carefully on the coffee table. Faith was just sliding her arms through the sleeves of her leather jacket when a voice stopped in her tracks.

"Want breakfast before you go?"

Crap. Biting her lip, Faith slowly turned around to face Lisa. "Long drive this morning," she said quickly. "Should probably hit the road."

Smiling in an unruffled, mother-ish sort of way, the other woman responded, "You're a lot like him, you know. I'm starting to see why you two get on so well."

The Slayer quit fishing in her pocket for her car keys. "Excuse me?"

"Dean was the same way when he left, that first time we met. Out the door in a giant hurry, barely five words to spare. Man knew how to love, but he had no clue how to say goodbye." The intense directness in Lisa's eyes made Faith distinctly uncomfortable. "I'm actually quite good at breakfast – Ben says it's his favorite meal of the day. You sure I can't fix you some eggs and toast? I promise it'll be better than whatever gas station you stop at on the way out of town."

Having lost control of the situation, Faith followed her into the kitchen, its white walls spotless and gleaming. "How did you know about the gas station?"

Lisa opened a bag of bread on the counter and popped two slices into the toaster. Then she retrieved a cast iron skillet from beneath the stove and set it on a burner to warm up. "Like I said," she opened the refrigerator in search of eggs, "you and Dean, you're a lot alike. I think it's finally making sense to me. All those late night conversations."

Exhausted, the Slayer sank onto one of the bar stools. "So you know about those."

"Yes."

"He the one to tell you?"

"No."

"Figures. Look, I should explain –"

Cracking a half dozen eggs into the large skillet, Lisa didn't bother to look up. "You're a hunter like Dean, right?"

Faith shifted her weight on her stool. "Technically, I'm a Vampire Slayer. It's slightly different – more fangs and wooden stakes, less demon exorcisms – but yeah, for the most part, it's more like a hunter than not."

"And you two've known each other for how long?"

There was nothing to do but surrender to the interrogation, one Faith could feel had been a long time coming. "Seven years, give or take."

"And you've hunted things together?"

Pennsylvania. New Orleans. Florida. London. _Buddy_. "Yeah."

This time, Lisa looked at her. "And you've slept together?"

"Once or twice." Not as if Faith had been counting.

"But you're aren't now." It was not a question.

"Dean's not a cheater." The Slayer hurried to defend his honor. "And I'm not, either. Besides, we don't . . . we were never . . . We hooked up a few times, when we first met, but we've never . . . I don't date people," she added as if that explained everything. "Listen, Lisa, about those conversations –"

"Does he tell you the truth about whatever the hell it is that's going on inside his head?" Lisa already knew most of these answers, but she had to ask. "Does it help?"

"Yes to the first. God, I hope so to the second."

The toaster dinged, and Lisa flipped the two slices of golden brown bread onto a plate. As she slathered them with butter, she continued, "Good. Because if he's not talking to me, at least he's talking to someone. And God knows he needs it."

"You aren't upset?" the Slayer asked tentatively.

"Do I wish he'd talk to me? Yes. I do. Sometimes. But then I think about the few things he has told me, about the monsters he's put down, about the horrors he's seen, and honestly, most of the time those terrify me enough that I don't even want to imagine the things he isn't saying."

"He cares about you," Faith felt the need to assure her. "A lot."

"I know." And she did. Oddly enough, that had never been one of the things Lisa questioned. "As much as I wish I could know him completely, understand him completely, right now, it's enough that he's talking to someone. It's almost . . ." she paused briefly, searching for the right word. "It's almost like he has PTSD. If he was in the military, coming back from Iraq or Afghanistan, there's no way I could resent him talking to his war buddies. So how can I be upset with him for talking to you?"

"That's . . ." Faith couldn't quite figure out the proper thing to say. "I mean, that's . . ."

"Don't get me wrong," Lisa continued, "I wish he'd stop doing it at three in the morning. But if that's what it takes for him to heal, then that's what it takes." She examined her skillet with a practiced eye. "Now, how do you like your scrambled eggs? Slightly cheesy or heart attack heavy?"


	102. White Picket Fences, pt 3

**September 3rd, 2010, Cicero, Indiana, 9:30 p.m.**

Exhausted and horrified, Lisa collapsed onto the edge of her mattress and stared at the locked bathroom door. Never in a million years could she have predicted that tonight would end this badly. Everything had been going so well for the last couple of months – or as well as they could.

After the awkwardness of meeting Dean's hunter friend had passed, both of them had relaxed. There was more openness and fewer secrets. When he got his tail kinked into a knot over something monster-related, he explained the situation to her in extremely broad strokes, allowing Lisa the chance to talk him out of his funk before he resorted to calling the Slayer. The late night phone calls slowed from a flood to a stream and then finally a trickle.

And then tonight . . . First had come the stilted conversations with the other couples watching Ben's Little League game, and then Ben had pestered Dean with questions about his childhood all throughout the twenty minute drive home. She had starting noticing the warning signs then – his shoulders becoming more forcibly squared, the increased tightness at the corners of his mouth, his iron grip on the steering wheel. At the time, she hadn't attached much significance to it. Nothing that couldn't be fixed by a long talk over a beer after Ben went to bed.

Over dinner, she had watched him beginning to shut down. His answers to Ben's unending queries became shorter and shorter, until 'terse' was almost too kind a word for them. Barely two scenes into their customary Friday night movie on the couch, he'd gotten up, muttered something about the bathroom, and disappeared upstairs, leaving a confused Ben and Lisa in his wake.

Lisa let the television drone on for another half hour before reaching for the remote. Overriding her son's protestations, she sent him off to bed. They could finish the movie tomorrow. She needed to check on Dean. When she reached their bedroom, she found the bathroom door locked shut. Although she knocked and called his name, there was no response. Only the sound of heavy breathing and the sink running.

Eyes fixed on the silver door handle, the woman slumped on the bed and slowly removed her shoes. Her mind raced. "Dean? You're starting to scare me. What's going on?"

He did not answer, and soon the noise of the shower joined that of the sink, drowning out any other attempts she might have made to talk to him. Lisa sighed and tossed her shoes in the general direction of the walk-in closet. She was in no mood to be tidy tonight. Glancing back towards the bathroom door, she caught sight of Dean's cellphone, teetering on the edge of the nightstand.

Suddenly, Lisa knew what to do. She scrolled through the contacts on the scratched piece of black electronics until she came to the one name she was familiar with, the one name that might help. The call rang out four times, and then a woman picked up.

"Hey, Dean," said the woman on the other end of the line breathlessly. "Kinda not a good time." Metal clanged somewhere in the background of the call, and she dropped a handful of heated profanities.

"Hi, Faith."

"Lisa?" Her voice hitched up half an octave in surprise. "Hang on a second." The echoing ring of metal was slightly muffled this time. Another barrage of cursing was followed by a faint "I got more stones than the whole lot of you. So come and get me, you bastards!"

The promised second dragged on into nearly five minutes. Confused and mildly disturbed, Lisa listened to the varied assortment of thuds, clangs, grunts, and odd, rattling gurgles as Faith finished whatever it was that Faith did on a Friday night. Finally, as the last gurgle rattled its way into cold silence, the Slayer's voice returned to the phone.

"Sorry about that," she panted, sounding even more breathless than before. "New demon clan trying to move into my town. Had to give 'em a quick eviction."

"Are you . . . Is everything all right?"

"Five by five. Just got busy for a minute there."

Knowing she might regret the answer, Lisa wondered, "If you were in the middle of a fight, why did you answer the phone?"

"Only one person with that ringtone," Faith answered shortly. "And he knows not to call on patrol nights for a quick chat. Figured it was something important. And since it's you on the line, not him, I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that it still is. You okay, Lisa? He okay?"

The woman did not bother lowering her voice. She didn't give a damn if Dean heard what she had to say. Briefly, she explained the events of the evening, finishing up with Dean's brusque retreat behind the bathroom door. "I don't know what the hell is going on with him this time," she concluded. "But I've had about as much as I can take."

"You confront him about it?" inquired Faith. Her boot heels clacked against concrete as she continued her Friday night patrol. "Call him on the carpet, give him an ultimatum? Tell him that if he doesn't talk to you, he's gonna lose you?"

"I . . ." Lisa struggled to form her ragged thoughts into formal sentences. "I haven't."

"Why not?" demanded the Slayer bluntly. The cautious tentativeness from their meeting in July had vanished completely. Instead, Lisa was shocked by the other woman's open line of questioning.

This time, she did drop her voice into a soft murmur, just above a whisper. "If I push him too much . . . These last few months have been hard, but they've also been wonderful. Especially the last couple of weeks."

"And you don't want to lose that," Faith surmised.

"I'm not . . . I don't know where that line is. Between giving him his space and demanding he talk to me." Lisa paused and then admitted the nasty thought at the back of her mind, "But _you_ do."

A moment of quiet, and then, "Ah. I see." The woman sighed. "Tell you what. Put me on speaker, slide me under the door if the gap's wide enough. I'll do what I can. But if he doesn't open the door in the next three minutes, you call his bluff. Threaten to break it down, threaten to walk out. Because it doesn't sound like you're happy living this way."

Lisa rose and walked closer to the bathroom door. "There isn't space," she said softly after a moment's consideration. "The carpet's too tall."

"G-d frakking dammit," growled Faith into her ear. "Fine. Just put me on speaker, then." Under her breath, she added, "Frakking dammit all to frakking hell. Last frakking thing I frakking need tonight."

Raising her eyebrows, Lisa pressed the speaker button and held the phone to the crack beneath the door. "You're on speaker," she informed the Slayer.

For a half-second, Faith said nothing. Then she bellowed, "DEAN!" The word was guttural and harsh, and it came out ten decibels louder than Lisa had expected. Even through the speakerphone, it was laden with a panicked desperation that almost convinced Lisa there was a true emergency. Inside the bathroom, the shower shut off abruptly.

Hardly stopping for breath, fury drowning out panic, the Slayer continued, "G-ddamn you, Dean Winchester. You open that G-ddamned door right this G-ddamned second. You hear me? You frakking open the frakking door."

The lock clicked, and the silver handle depressed as the door was pulled open from the inside. Straightening, Lisa looked upwards into Dean's haggard face. A towel hastily looped around his waist, he was dripping water onto the bathroom linoleum. For a mad, fleeting second, she wondered if he had been trying to drown himself.

Dean lowered his eyes from her worried expression to the cell phone in her hand. "Faith?" he asked warily without reaching for the black plastic. "What happened to the slime demons?"

She did not answer his question. Rather, Faith barked out her own, "You alive?"

Tightening the towel that was slipping down his hips, the man said only, "Yes."

The next question came out even more brusque than the first had been. "You trying to off yourself?"

"No." With a frown, Dean glanced back at Lisa.

"World ending for any reason?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Am I still on speaker?"

"Yes."

"Good." Something inhuman snarled on Faith's end of the line. Then came a heavy thud and the whooshing of a fall breeze. "G-d frakking dammit," muttered the Slayer. "You'd think the frakking idiots would've learned by now that trying to get the frakking jump on me NEVER WORKS!" The last two words were shouted.

"Faith?" prompted Lisa. "Everything okay?"

The Slayer ignored her. "You can both hear me, then? Okay. Here's the deal. For the frakking love of G-d, frakking talk to each other. Dean, you need some alone time, you frakking tell her. Lisa, you get concerned about him, you frakking ask him. Dean, when she asks, you frakking answer."

Faith did not pause for breath, merely steam-rollered on, "I've got a frakking pack of slime demons to take out tonight, and I'm only halfway through, plus the three vamps who're scheduled to rise before sun-up. I do not have frakking time for this. So for G-d's sake, _stop_. Stop dragging me into the middle of this. You two work out your frakking relationship on your own. Frakking leave me the frakking hell out of it. 'Cuz I've got better frakking things to frakking do."

With no further warning, the cell phone in Lisa's hands went deathly quiet as Faith ended the call. For an uncomfortably long moment, silence hung heavy in the air between her and the man she had invited into her life.

"Should we call her back?" she asked as Dean stepped back into the bathroom and began dressing.

"Not tonight," the hunter replied briskly. Dragging his boxers up over his hips, he met her gaze apologetically. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I just . . . needed some space for a moment. Faith's right, though. I should have talked to you first. Or opened the door. I'm sorry, Lise. I'm real sorry."

Lisa chewed on her bottom lip. "Maybe . . . Maybe calling her was a mistake. I just thought . . . You weren't answering me, and I was scared, and I didn't know what else to try."

"You could have tried cussing me out like she did," Dean said dryly. "Apparently I respond pretty well to that." He crossed the linoleum to her and took her into his arms, pressing his forehead against hers. "I'm so sorry, Lise," he repeated. "I promise, it's not going to happen again. I promise. From here on out, it'll be better. I promise."

"It's got to be, Dean." Lisa turned to the side and rested her head on his shoulder. "It's just got to be."

"I know," he echoed. "And it will be. I promise."

* * *

 

**September 4th, 2010, Cicero, Indiana**

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 11:15 a.m.  
Message:

About yesterday…

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 11:30 a.m.  
Message:

Go to hell.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 11:32 a.m.  
Message:

You're still pissed then.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 11:37 a.m.  
Message:

And you're still a dumbass. Guess this's what Andrew calls an impasse.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 11:40 a.m.  
Message:

You borrowing words from Andrew? Or are you rhyming on purpose?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 11:42 a.m.  
Message:

I'm still pissed. Frak off.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 11:45 a.m.  
Message:

Lisa and I talked last night.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 11:48 a.m.  
Message:

Good for you. Now frak off. I'm too g-damned tired to talk to you anymore. I quit.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 11:52 a.m.  
Message:

Quit what?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 11:55 a.m.  
Message:

Quit this. I'm not your frakking therapist. So I quit.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 11:56 a.m.  
Message:

I'm calling you.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 11:57 a.m.  
Message:

Why didn't you pick up?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 11:58 a.m.  
Message:

Faith?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 12:07 p.m.  
Message:

I told you. I'm done. Now leave me alone.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 12:10 p.m.  
Message:

What the hell, Faith?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 12:15 p.m.  
Message:

Leave me alone.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 12:18 p.m.  
Message:

No. Not until you tell me why you're so pissed off. Something happen with the slime demons last night?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 12:22 p.m.  
Message:

They died. I killed them. All by myself. No backup. As usual. And why's that? Oh, I don't know maybe because the only people I trust as backup are off haring away after their latest blonde romance or they've quit the game.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 12:24 p.m.  
Message:

I don't blame you for leaving. That's fine. But I'm dying out here, trying to do my damn job as a Slayer and playing your shrink at the same time.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 12:26 p.m.  
Message:

I nearly took a knife to the gut last night, when Lisa called me and I thought it was you. Couldn't ignore the phone, no. Not when I'm always waiting for the call that you're about to swallow your gun.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 12:27 p.m.  
Message:

I can't frakking do this anymore, okay? If there's an emergency, call me. If you need me, call me. But if you can talk to Lisa instead of me, do that. 'Cuz I'm tired, Dean. I'm so frakking tired. So I quit.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 12:30 p.m.  
Message:

G-d, Faith. I'm sorry. I didn't know.

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 12:32 p.m.  
Message:

I'm not saying stop talking. If anything, you need to talk more. Just . . . . I need a break, okay? I need a break. So talk to Lisa. She's your girlfriend, not me. Talk. To. Her.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 12:37 p.m.  
Message:

This is goodbye, then?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 12:40 p.m.  
Message:

Guess so. For a while.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855552575  
Time: 12:42 p.m.  
Message:

If it's worth anything, I'm sorry. Take care of yourself?

. . . .

To: 7855552575  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 12:45 p.m.  
Message:

I always do.

. . . .

* * *

**October 31, 2010, Cicero, Indiana, 5:30 p.m.**

He was on his way home from his latest construction gig when the phone rang. "Hey, Lise. Don't worry – I already picked up three bags of candy bars at the store. Unless the whole town shows up at our door, we should be covered. Ben find his Godzilla mask?"

"In the top of his closet," Lisa said, her voice oddly strained. "And it's not the candy I'm worried about."

Dean pressed his work boot down on the accelerator. "What's wrong?"

"You have a visitor."

"Bobby?"

"Who's Bob – oh, never mind. It's Faith. She's drunk. Siting on the front porch and she won't come inside. Says it's her night off. How far out are you?"

"Be there in ten."

"Good. You may want to hurry. I think . . . I think she's in trouble."

* * *

As he pulled into the driveway, Dean surveyed his surroundings. Beside Lisa's sleek sedan was a gleaming Harley, a blood-red helmet carelessly dangling from the handlebars. At the edge of the concrete steps leading up to the front porch sat the Slayer, encased in black leather from head to toe. A half-empty bottle of clear liquid perched on the step next to her hip.

With a world weary sigh, he shifted into park and grabbed the Halloween candy out of the back seat. He was halfway across the pavement before he addressed her. "Tell me you weren't drinking that on the drive down."

Faith glanced up from her bleary-red study of the jack-o-lantern that Ben had completed last week at school. "I'm not stupid," she said, only slurring half of her consonants.

Dropping onto the concrete beside her, Dean fired off a quick text to Lisa. _I'm out front._ "How long you been sitting here?"

The Slayer shrugged. "I dunno. Long enough. Think I scared Ben." She reached for her vodka, but Dean's hand shot out, his fingers closing tight around her wrist.

"Uh uh." He shook his head. "Unless you're planning to go trick or treating as a case of alcohol poisoning, you need to stop."

Faith relinquished her grip on the glass bottle. She stared down at his hand on her arm. Lips pursed, she gently tugged her wrist free. "Don't touch me."

"Okay. Your wish is my command. Lisa said you wanted to talk to me?"

"Don't know that want's the word for it." Faith mumbled, looking at her boots. "I'm not . . . I'm not doing so good."

"What happened? All your friends okay – Angel, Spike, Buffy, the Slayerettes?"

"Slayers die all the time." The brunette eyed her alcohol longingly. "But no one's bit the dust this week, no."

"Well . . ." Dean had no idea where to start. The Slayer was barely making eye contact. Despite the armor of her black leathers, he could see she'd been losing weight again. Something was off. He just wasn't sure how to coax it out of her. They had not spoken since the beginning of September. "You want to talk?"

"No."

The hunter settled himself a little more comfortably on the concrete stoop. "Almost two months since I heard from you. You sure you got nothing for me? No vamps making horrendously stupid decisions or even worse jokes? No rant about the Watchers Council? No new project of Angel's?"

Her glare cut him short. "Dean."

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to talk. I just want to sit and drink until I can't remember my own name."

"Why come here, then? You know I'm not gonna let you give yourself a hangover." By Dean's reckoning, she ought to have known better.

The Slayer glanced back at her boots. "Because I wanted to drink with you," she admitted quietly.

"Too bad. Not gonna happen." At her wounded look, he added, "But I will force-feed you chili, and then you can help me and Lisa pass out candy, okay?" Dean nudged her shoulder with his. "You can clean up, camp out on the couch tonight if you want. And when you're ready, we'll talk."

Faith leaned away, her shoulders hunching nearly up to her ears. "I'm fine."

"Hey. Look at me." Unthinking, the hunter reached, catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger and dragging it upwards until she was looking him straight in the face. "Don't lie to me, Faith," he warned as he released her. "You're not fine. And you're going to tell me about it. When you're ready."

"You know, this whole not talking to you thing kinda sucks," Faith mumbled.

"I know," replied Dean as he snagged her bottle of vodka off the porch. He extended his free hand to pull her up to her feet. "Come on. Let's go."

* * *

They met Lisa in the kitchen, where she was stirring a stainless steel stockpot filled with steaming chili. The delicious aroma set Dean's mouth watering. "Hey, babe." He plopped the Halloween candy onto the kitchen table and deposited the Grey Goose into the trash can. "I found a Slayer to help scare off the monsters."

Lisa smiled, but her eyes were concerned. "The more the merrier."

"Monsters don't actually come out on Halloween," said Faith quietly. "Common misunderstanding."

" _Your_ kind don't," stressed Dean. Shooting Lisa a grateful look, he added, "Faith's just going to clean up a bit before dinner. It's a long dusty drive from Ohio. I'm gonna show her the bathroom, and then I'll be right back to help with things, Lise. C'mon, Slayer."

Arms folded across her stomach, Faith followed him along the hallway. Neither of them said a word until they reached the guest bathroom and Dean began rifling through the cupboards for a clean towel.

"You got spare clothes?"

"Yeah. In one of the saddlebags."

"Keys?"

"Here." She dug a silver ring out of her jacket and passed the jangling tangle of metal over.

Dean slipped the keys into his pocket. "I'll leave your stuff outside the door. Keep the water cold. It'll help sober you up. One thing I will say – you're a lot less trouble when you're drunk than Sam used to be."

It was the first time he had used his brother's name casually in conversation for a long while, but Faith didn't so much as blink. "I'm not drunk," she complained instead. "Just halfway there."

"Halfway's far enough." He stepped backwards as she started tugging at the zipper on her leather jacket. "Don't forget: cold shower."

She looked up from her zipper with tired eyes. "Speaking of forgetting . . . There are more books. In the other saddlebag. For Sam."

The hunter cleared his throat as he backed into the hallway and began pushing the bathroom door shut. "Cold shower, Faith. Then we'll talk."


	103. White Picket Fences, pt 4

* * *

_What the hell am I doing?_ Finger-combing her wet hair back into a tight ponytail, Faith secured it with a black elastic. She stared at her reflection and attempted to raise her right eyebrow. It twitched upwards ever so slightly, but was then joined by her left.

"Dammit," the Slayer swore without heat. "You really frakked up this time," she addressed her reflection. Taking in the smudges of eyeliner and mascara encircling her eyes, she thought back on the last month and a half.

At the time, cutting Dean loose had sounded like the best way to give herself a break. Caught in a never-ending cycle of Slayage, phone calls, and the constant, constant worrying, she had felt herself fraying at the edges. And then, before she could concoct the best plan to keep it from falling apart, it had all fallen apart anyway.

When she'd hung up the phone that night in September, Faith had been at her wit's end. Over the summer, she had gradually rearranged her schedule so that it matched Dean's – well, more or less. Planning her gym and study time so that it always ended around when he got off work. Staying awake until two a.m. on non-patrol nights, in case he needed her. Sleeping fitfully even then. It had become an unendurable schedule, and eventually she broke.

Unfortunately, Faith reflected, awash in a sea of self-criticism, she had failed to account for a few key factors. That her almost-daily calls with Dean were not only his chance to unload, but hers as well. That he absorbed all the endless Slayer drama and gossip with a few gruff, sarcastic sentences, leaving her free of the burden of it. That he had been the one person in her corner who she could always count on for encouragement when she needed it and critique only when it was warranted. That talking to him, whether at four in the afternoon or four in the morning, was sometimes the one bright flash of light on an exceptionally dreary day.

After slipping back into her underwear, the Slayer cracked open the bathroom door and reached for the neatly folded pile of clothes waiting for her on the tile outside. The spare jeans and t-shirt had been tossed into a crumpled mess in her saddlebag. Someone must have folded them for her – likely Dean, if she had to guess. The kindness of the gesture reminded her that by cutting him loose, she had in essence cut herself off from her only non-Buffy-related friend.

Faith tugged the jeans up and over her bony hips and then pulled the t-shirt over her wet ponytail, still lost in thought. Without her conversations with Dean, the Slayer had quickly come to realize just how much she depended on him as a pressure release valve. With the loss of her venting outlet, the pressure had built up with impressive speed.

The first month or so on her own had gone well enough. She finally completed her associate's degree and was now working on a bachelor's in business. If there ever came a light at the end of this Slaying tunnel, she thought she might open up her own martial arts studio. God knew she was good at hitting things. And now, thanks to the Slayerettes, she had plenty of experience teaching teenagers how to hit things.

Apart from the studying, she had even managed to hold up her end of the Slaying. It was fall in Cleveland, and fall meant her annual scourging of the city's cemeteries before winter set in. Faith's personal version of spring cleaning. She invited as many Slayers, Watchers, and assorted Scoobies as were free to come for a week-long rampage of hunting, staking, and Slaying whatever vamps and demons they could find in Cleveland's mausoleums, catacombs, and slums.

The scourge had been fine, but some of the younger Slayers had made obnoxious comments or watched her with blatant curiosity when they thought she wasn't looking. This year, Buffy herself had come to join the party. In some ways, that was a relief. Faith knew she could take a step back, defer to the blonde's more extensive command experience. Just tell B what she wanted cleared out and follow orders. She didn't mind taking orders from Buff. Not any more.

What Faith had minded, however, was Buffy's reaction when she inevitably learned that the brunette and her hunter friend were on the outs. There had come a preachy lecture of true Buffy proportions, the kind that always set Faith's fist itching to land itself smack in the middle of B's pretty chin. Truth be told, Faith didn't need Buffy's sanctimonious reminders of how she had frakked up. She already knew that.

Almost from the moment she had hung up that phone, Faith had regretted going off on him. But she was too frustrated, too ragged, too damn stubborn to ever take her words back. If he needed her, really needed her, he would call. That was something else Faith knew, deep down in her bones. No matter what cranky words had passed between them, when he needed her, she would be there. It was just the way they were.

Faith paused her wool-gathering long enough to search through the bathroom cabinets for some eye-makeup remover. She did not fancy eating dinner next to the immaculate Lisa, not when she currently resembled a cross between a rabid panda and a half-drowned rat.

And there lay the problem, the Slayer concluded when her search came up empty. With Dean out of the game, it threw off her rhythm. If he needed her, she was only a phone call away. But when she needed something, needed more than just his voice on the other end of a cell phone, she couldn't even ask. Not anymore. Not when he had quit the rat race and shacked up with his dream girl.

It didn't matter how much she missed hunting with him. It didn't matter that he was her preferred backup on patrol, better at reading her than anyone except for Buffy and Angel, and with less of the awkward questions or easily dislodged soul. None of that mattered. Faith couldn't tear him away from his retirement, from his happily ever after.

All the while that she had been repeating to herself that she didn't actually need him, a quiet resentment had taken root. Every time she reached for her phone to text him about a big nasty in Cleveland and then put it away before she gave in and asked for his help, it grew stronger. Every time some vamp got away because he called at an inopportune time, the resentment leveled up.

In the end, she supposed, that had been the true reason for cessation of all communications. Not merely because she was falling apart at the seams from being pulled in far too many directions. The resentment had taken the reins, unleashed a vindictive tirade that left her feeling empty.

Since Buffy's trip to the Hellmouth, Faith's shame and guilt had been surging, but they could not overcome her stubbornness and her resentment. Not until last night, when Andrew had swung in through town on his new Harley purchased with the publisher's check for his first book. The Slayer grape vine must have been working overtime, because he trapped her in her bedroom and staged an intervention with Becka and Lily as his willing coconspirators.

Perhaps the intervention had worked better than Drew intended. Faith had risen with the dawn, pissed as hell, and stolen his motorcycle. Before she took off, she filled the saddlebags with a change of clothes, some toiletries, and her basic weapons kit, then added a few books as a peace offering. Just in case she made it down to Indiana.

Finally abandoning her attempts to clean the eyeliner off her face, the Slayer scoffed at her reflection. Just in case. Her destination had always been Cicero. Since the moment she first straddled that Harley, she had been Indiana-bound. She just hadn't been willing to admit it.

"You about finished in there?" Dean's gruff voice startled her out of her navel-gazing.

Hurriedly picking Andrew's dusty leathers off the floor, Faith flicked the lock on the bathroom door and twisted the handle. "Yeah."

The hunter nudged the door open the rest of the way with his foot. "Here." He passed her a small blue bottle and a stack of cotton balls. He seemed more sure of himself, more settled, than he had in July. Good. That made one of them. "Lisa thought you might need some of this. I think it's makeup remover."

"That was kind of her." Faith chose her words with care. The worst of the vodka haze had cleared with the cold shower, and all the self-hatred she had been drinking to escape came bounding back. Concentrating on the makeup remover, she squeezed a small dollop of translucent cream onto a cotton ball and began cleaning her face. She could not meet the reflection of his eyes in the mirror. If she did, she had no idea what would come out of her mouth next.

"Mmm." Dean moved to stand next to her. "While you were in the shower, I got a call from Becka. She sounded pretty worried. You wanna tell me what happened?"

"Not really," the Slayer grumbled. Finishing her left eye, she proceeded to the right.

"That's okay," he said knowingly. "Becka gave me her version. I think I can fill in some of the blanks. You finally realize how much you missed me?" His tone was teasing, but his eyes, staring at hers in the glass, were anything but.

Here it came. The moment Faith had been dreading. "Dean," she started hesitantly, "I'm so sor – "

"Don't." He placed a hand on her shoulder, the heat of his skin seeping through her thin blue t-shirt.

Biting her lip, Faith turned from the mirror to meet his gaze directly. "But –"

"Let's skip the whole apology thing," Dean said in a quiet voice. "I'm sorry, you're sorry – we both know how it's going to go. So why don't we just cut to the chase? This whole not talking thing sucks ass. So let's just fast forward to the part where we're talking again."

Before the Slayer could do more than stutter a soft "okay," he continued, "In the whole process of getting you away from the vodka, I kinda forgot something important."

Curious, Faith raised her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yeah." His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he opened his arms. "Come here."

She dropped her cotton ball onto the slick bathroom counter and turned into the embrace. For a brief moment, her nose brushed his shoulder, and the Slayer scrunched her eyelids into tight wrinkles as the familiar feeling of warmth swept over her. The hug only lasted a few seconds, and then Faith stepped away, but those few seconds were enough time for the world to finally right itself beneath her feet.

When she next glanced up, he was watching her, a mixture of exasperation and fondness in his eyes, a look that she had thought was reserved solely for Sam. "You hungry?" he asked, the question both apology and forgiveness all in one.

Faith stared up into those green eyes, allowing them to absolve her of guilt and shame. The last dregs of her resentment slowly drained away. "Yeah. I could eat."

* * *

Two bowls of chili and one and a half glasses of coke later, Faith lounged on a barstool with weary contentment. Her stomach was so full that she felt almost sick, yet it was worth it. She had not eaten anything all day, and the chili and the soda were just enough to chase away the very last remnants of her vodka-induced haze.

"Mom!" A mask-wearing dinosaur trudged its way into the kitchen, its complaint somewhat muffled by the plasticine Godzilla head perched on its shoulders. "Mom!" Godzilla roared, shoving his way past Faith on her barstool, elbowing Dean at the kitchen sink on his quest to reach his mother. "We're gonna be la-ate! I told Josh we'd meet them at the school by seven. Come on!"

Lisa paused in eating her own bowl of chili to smile leniently at the monster tugging at her arm. "I'll be right there, Ben," she promised. "Just let me finish my dinner."

Godzilla danced in place with impatience. "Mo-om, we're gonna be late!"

"Hey, Ben." Dean killed the faucet and straightened up from washing dishes. "Give your mom a break. Why don't I take you?"

"Dean, you don't have to – " started Lisa. Faith said nothing, although her grip tightened on her soda glass.

"No, really," Dean stopped her. "I used to take Sam when he was a kid. It'll be fine. All I have to do is drive, right, Ben?"

"Right," echoed Godzilla. "We going now?"

"Yeah." Dean dried his hands on his jeans. "We're off. Don't eat all the candy while we're gone, ladies."

"We can't make any promises," Lisa laughed. The Slayer listlessly moved her spoon around her bowl of chili as she watched him leave. G-d, she hated Halloween.

To her credit, Lisa did not immediately jump in with a thousand questions the moment Dean and Ben walked out the door. She waited until she had finished her chili and loaded the empty bowl into the dishwasher before turning to the Slayer.

"No monsters on Halloween?" she asked gently, as if offering an olive branch.

"Not usually." Faith rose from her stool and joined Lisa at the sink. Warm water coursed over her hands as she scoured the last remnants of tomato sauce and kidney beans from the white Ikea porcelain ware "Don't know why. They just don't. Thanks for the makeup remover," she added as an afterthought.

"Anytime. I've ended up looking like a raccoon often enough myself not to wish it on anybody else. You doing okay?"

"More or less," replied Faith. _Sometimes more, sometimes less,_ she thought as she poured herself another tall glass of Coke. "So . . . how exactly does this passing out candy thing work? I can't really say that I've ever done it before."

The other woman stepped out into the living room for a brief second and then returned, bearing two peaked polyester black hats with neon streamers wrapped around the coned center and dangling from the brim. "It's easy," she said, extending both of the hats in the Slayer's direction. "Just decide which color witch you want to be: green or orange?"

* * *

"You two are like five-year-olds," announced Lisa as she rounded the corner from the staircase to the living room.

Despite the high flow of trick-or-treaters, there had been half a bag of chocolate left over, sitting in the cheap plastic orange pumpkin that she always used to pass it out. Ben had added a decent amount of his least favorite candy to the pile, tossing in Blow pops and Dum Dums to land on top of the mini candy bars. When she had headed upstairs to help her son unzip himself from his Godzilla costume, the pumpkin had been full on the coffee table.

In the brief seven minutes or so that she had been gone, the pumpkin had been knocked onto the carpet, its entrails spilled across the living room while a pair of full grown adults bickered over who got this mini Butterfinger or that tiny box of Milk Duds.

"Honestly," she added when neither Dean nor Faith looked up at her, too preoccupied with the apportioning of their candy, "it's like the pair of you have never seen Halloween candy before."

Dean snuck a furtive glance down at his burgeoning stack of M&M's. "Sam was crap at sharing," he said by way of explanation.

The Slayer pawed through her candy bars and carefully sorted out the Almond Joy's. "My mom was never really too focused on the trick-or-treating thing," she mumbled. "She tended to be a bit more concerned with the drinking and passing out parts of life. We were going to play poker," Faith added in a more cheerful voice. "Join us?" she indicated a bare patch of carpet next to Dean.

For the first time, Lisa noticed the battered pack of playing cards beside Dean's knee. She lowered herself down onto the carpet, folding her legs crosslegged beneath her. "Sounds like fun. Deal me in."


	104. White Picket Fences, pt 5

* * *

Despite all of Dean's expectations and good intentions, eventually time without his little brother came to hurry along just as fast as it had when Sam had been present. Week after mundane week blurred into one another, until the months were racing past with little to mark them except for certain memories which stood out in the back of the hunter's mind.

He spent his first proper Thanksgiving in years inundated by a surge of Lisa's family, Sam's absence a constant ache in his gut. Although Lisa's cooking was as fantastic as always, he would not have been able to tell it apart from radioactive sludge. Not with how little he tasted it.

Ten days or so before Christmas, Lisa sent Dean out of town for the weekend. She said it was because she needed to go gift shopping, but both of them knew better. It was Faith's birthday, and she had a nasty infestation of needle-toothed wyrms to clear out of Cleveland. The Slayer had not asked Dean to come, and he had not asked Lisa if he could go, but somehow the brunette had picked up on the unspoken invitation and kicked him out of the house anyway.

On the morning of Dean's thirty-second birthday, he followed the smell of pancakes and bacon downstairs to find Lisa seated at the kitchen table while Faith cooked breakfast. She came bearing gifts: a new video game for Ben and an offer to babysit that evening for the adults.

Shortly after Valentine's Day, the hunter found himself once again hiding out in the bathroom, making clandestine phone calls. He had used the four-letter 'L' word, he explained. Lisa had said, "I love you," and he had repeated the phrase back without even really thinking about it.

"When was the last time you said 'I love you' to someone?" he demanded from Faith in a moment of hysterical panic.

"My mom. I was thirteen. Not since then. Why?"

"Exactly," Dean half-yelped, half-whispered into the phone line. "I shouldn't have said it. It's dangerous. It jinxes things."

At which point, the Slayer had simply given one long-suffering sigh and informed him that the only thing capable of jinxing his relationship with Lisa was his own bone-headed behavior. As advice went, Faith did not believe in pulling punches.

Spring sped by, and slowly Dean began to allow himself the freedom of imagining how the rest of his life might play out. He loved Lisa; she loved him. Other than that, nothing definite had been established. He wanted to stay with her and Ben, as long as they'd have him. Someday, he and Faith would find a way to bust Sammy out of the cage. In the meantime, life was good – well, for the most part.

There were still the bad nights, when his memories of Sam and his memories of Hell became intertwined until he couldn't tell what was real and what was nightmare. Sometimes, he still snuck out to the garage and planted himself on the cold concrete floor, leaning his back up against the wheel well of his car. If even that silence wasn't enough to clear his head, he called Faith.

Dean was not whole yet – not by a long shot – but he was on his way to healing. Everything was continuing to improve, bit by bit and day by day. Until the night when his dead brother showed up on his doorstep.

* * *

**From: ZepHead_79**   
**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: May 30, 2011 at 7:30 p.m.**   
**Subject: Hey**

Faith,

I know you probably won't get this until you and Angel finish up your Siberia thing, but it seems like there's a case in town. I've been seeing all these claw marks everywhere. Found some sulfur dust, too. Not entirely sure what to make of it. Don't worry, though – I can handle this. Might need to send Lise and Ben to the movies, but they'll understand.

By the way, Ben was asking when you're swinging by again. Apparently no else else plays Guitar Hero well enough to give him a run for his money.

Earlier today, somebody was asking me what I used to do before I moved to Cicero. Told him I was in pest control. Ha.

Anyway, keep warm out there and email me when you can.

-Dean

. . . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**   
**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: June 1, 2011 at 4:30 a.m.**   
**Subject: Holy Frakking Sh-t**

Sam's back. Alive. Whole. In one piece. Same too-long hair. So's my grandfather – my mom's dad who got killed by a demon back in the 70s.

Turns out they've both been back for this whole last year. Only showed up now because some djinn are out for Sam and me. We took Lisa and Ben to Bobby's, to keep them safe. And guess what? Bobby knew the whole damn time, too.

Leaving Lise at Bobby's while Sam and I go take care of this djinn problem. I knew something would find me eventually. Guess I just hoped it'd take a little longer.

. . . .

**From: YogiBraeden**   
**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: June 1, 2011 at 9:00 a.m.**   
**Subject: Hi**

Faith,

I don't really know how to start this. I hope your trip to Russia is going well. Things are . . . weird around here. I'm worried about Dean. If you see this, could you call him? I think he might need you.

-Lisa

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**   
**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: June 1, 2011 at 2:54 p.m.**   
**Subject: READ ME**

F,

G-dammit, woman, check your email. SAM IS BACK. And my extended family is all kinds of Stepford wrong.

D

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**   
**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: June 2, 2011 at 6:30 p.m.**   
**Subject: Case Solved**

Faith,

Djinn are dead. Went and picked Lisa and Ben up from Bobby's. Sam's hunting with Samuel – that's my grandfather – and some third cousins of ours I'd never met before this week. Sam asked me to join 'em. I said no.

I don't think he gets why. I dunno that I do either. Those first few months without him were hell. I still can't believe Lisa let me stay, not with the way I was outta my head – well, you know.

But what me and Lise have, it's worth staying for. Although after this djinn, I'm thinking we might need to move towns.

You find your Abominable Snowman yet?

-Dean

. . . .

**From: YogiBraeden**   
**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: June 2, 2011 7:15 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Hi**

Faith,

Crisis averted. For now, anyway. I hope. Dean could probably still use a call from you, though. And honestly, it'd be good if you came by when you get back to the States. I'd like to pick your brain about something.

-Lisa

. . . .

* * *

**June 4th, 2011, Novossibirsk, Russia, 7:25 a.m.**

"Five days. I was off the grid for five days. And all Hell broke loose." Faith ceased her pacing long enough to lift the stained linen curtain at the hotel room window and gaze out across the smoggy city morning. Chewing her lip, she lowered the fabric quickly before the faint rays of sunlight could invade. "Well – maybe not all Hell," she added as a snarky afterthought. "Sounds like it was just Sam."

Thousands of miles and a dozen time zones away, Dean let out a snort that under other circumstances might have been considered mildly hysterical. "Probably a good thing you were in Russia, actually," he said in a dry tone. "Otherwise, I might've called you to get your ass over here. And I'm not sure the Campbells could've handled a Slayer."

"Oh?" The woman's tone leapt up half an octave, coy and filled with self-satisfaction. "Let me guess – is it because I'm better at hunting than any of them? Because my instincts are unparalleled? Wait, no – I've got it. It's because I'm a hot chick with superpowers, isn't it?"

The hunter fired back his response, "Nah. I think it's cause your ego would've sucked all the oxygen out of the room."

"That was weak, Winchester. You getting all your comebacks from Ben these days? How are they, anyway?" Faith slumped back onto the edgy of her lumpy mattress and began slowly unlacing her heavy boots. The last few days had been insane, bordering on hell.

"We're moving next week." He sounded rueful. "Just don't think it's safe here anymore."

Hard to disagree with that. Not with djinn popping up all over the g-ddamn place. "Fair enough. Poor Ben, though. Changing schools sucks." She thought back on elementary and middle school with an internal shudder.

"I know," Dean replied gruffly. "At least this way it's over the summer and not in the middle of the school year."

"Mmm." The door to the ensuite creaked open and a still-soggy Angel stepped out, flecks of water dripping from the tips of his hair as he buttoned his open shirt. "Angel says hi, by the way," the Slayer fibbed.

She pulled the cell phone away from her ear and covered the mouthpiece. "It's Dean," she hissed to the vampire, who nodded and continued dressing.

When she lifted the phone back up, Dean was unconvinced. "Uh huh. Sure he did. Tell him 'hi' back. How'd your Yeti hunt go?"

"It wasn't a Yeti hunt," Faith corrected him, observing closely as Angel finished his final buttons. Too bad that view had to disappear. It'd been one of the nicest things she'd seen all week. "We were tracking some kind of Snowbeast. Six feet tall at the shoulder and looked like a cross between some kind of warthog and a rhinoceros. The last Slayer sent to take it down went missing after a few days. So they called us in to handle things."

"And?"

Faith sighed. "Consider things handled. Irina didn't make it, though. Sometimes . . . these girls die so fast, Dean. So fast and so young. Makes me wonder how the hell Buffy and I are still alive."

"Hasn't she died like twice?" Dean reminded her.

"Yeah, but I try not to bring that up," said the Slayer peppily. "She tends to get all martyr-y on me."

"Don't be too harsh on her. Coming back . . . not a super pleasant thing." The hunter did not bother going into details, which worked out fine for Faith. She already knew most of them already, anyway.

"So you've told me. How's Sam dealing with all that?"

"Dunno." Dean exhaled and then went on, "He didn't want to talk. It was weird – not like he was hurting from it, but like it didn't matter to him. I'm telling you, Faith. It was weird." He hesitated briefly. "You headed back anytime soon?"

"Few more weeks, maybe. There's an Otso out in Norway that B asked Angel and me to take a look at. Finnish forest spirit that takes the form of a bear. Sounds like this one's gone loco. No freaking idea why it's in Norway. I think we're gonna be tied up for a while. Unless you need me to hurry back?"

He hurried to reassure her. "No, it should all be okay here. Lisa and me are on the same page."

"O-kay. Make sure you keep it like that. You hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Dean chorused obediently.

Faith smiled into the phone. "Attaboy. I'm glad Sam's back," she tacked on at the end. "Even though I've still got some major questions."

"Yeah." Dean paused. When he next spoke, there was an odd distance in his tone that bothered her. "Me, too."

* * *

**July 3rd, 2011, Oslo, Norway, 3:30 a.m.**

The incessant growling of guitars dragged Faith out of her dreams and back into the darkness of another strange hotel room. She reached out blindly for her cell phone and instead encountered someone's nose.

"Ouch," grumbled Angel, and the cool touch of the vampire pressed her phone into her hand. "If you didn't wake up in five minutes, I was going to answer it. This's the third time he's called."

Too tired to read much into Angel's frustration, the Slayer sleepily answered the phone. "Hello?"

"He's gotta be somebody's baby," sang a slightly-buzzed man's voice into her ear. "He must be somebody's baby. He's gotta be somebody's baby, He's so fine . . ."

"Dean." She snapped out the word, the final consonant sharp and nasal. "It's the middle of the night here. And you're calling to sing me a lullaby – with the wrong pronouns, I might add?"

The hunter did not rise to her irritation. "Shh. You're gonna wake Bobby John."

" _Who_?" Faith was not awake enough to deal with this.

"Baby shapeshifter. Looks like the daddy monster killed his human momma. Sam and I are tryin' to keep him away from the shifter now."

Angel flicked on the overhead light, and the Slayer resigned herself to losing her dreams. She pushed herself up into a sitting position and glared at the vampire. Since Dean was too far away for her angry staring, Angel would simply have to serve as proxy. "You've adopted a kid?" Faith demanded hysterically. "Tell me you at least checked with Lisa first."

"Whoah," Dean rushed to stop that train of thought. "I never said Sam and I were 'keeping him' keeping him. Just gotta keep him outta the hands of the thing that murdered his mom."

"And then what?" The Slayer fought the urge to throw a pillow at Angel, who had matched her angry-stare with an unimpressed look of his own. "Foster care? You and I both know that system's not any good for kids – and it'll be a thousand times worse for a kid who's also a shifter."

"I don't know, okay?" Although his irritation was increasing, Dean kept his voice quiet. "Haven't thought that far ahead yet. So unless you're volunteering that you'd take him . . ."

"Dean. I don't even have a plant. What the hell would I do with a baby? Keep him in the saddlebags on my bike?" Technically, it was still Andrew's bike, Faith reminded herself. She just kept borrowing it.

"I'm just saying – don't rag on me for not having a viable plan yet."

Three in the morning had never been the time for Faith's best thinking, and so it was proving this morning. "Look – push comes to shove, I can help you find a home for the little guy. Giles might have some ideas – he always does about these kind of things. Let me know if you want me to ask him?" And please, please let me go back to sleep? she added silently.

"Yeah. Thanks. I'll do that. Gotta go – Bobby John's starting to wake up."

* * *

**From: ZepHead_79**   
**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: July 4, 2011 at 11:45 p.m.**   
**Subject: Never Mind**

Faith,

No need to open up that orphanage just yet. We all got our asses handed to us on a plate by some alpha Shifter – and he took Bobby John. I hope he'll be okay. More important, I hope I never have to kill him someday.

Lisa and I had a big conversation when I got home. For now, I'm back on the road with Sam – but I'm gonna be going home to them every chance I get.

Back in the Impala today. Nothing in the world quite like her. Sam's still insisting on driving some douchemobile. I swear, if he wasn't my brother . . .

Feels good to be on the road again. How're the Northern Lights?

-Dean

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**To: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: July 5, 2011 at 6:05 a.m.**   
**Subject: Same Old, Same Old**

D,

Slayer kill monsters. Slayer burn calories. Slayer keep Angel out of Northern sunlight. Slayer eat smorgasbord. Rinse. Repeat.

-F

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**   
**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: August 25, 2011 at 2:30 p.m.**   
**Subject: Vacation Time**

Going to Scotland to do Bobby a favor. He made a deal with Crowley and needs some leverage. You want to meet up in Edinburgh?

-Dean

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**To: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: August 25, 2011 at 7:20 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Vacation Time**

Ugh. Can't. Fred needs our help. Suspicious vamp activity in the Swiss Alps. Angel and Faith to the rescue! Next time?

-F

P.S. How did Bobby get you on a plane?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**   
**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: August 27, 2011 at 5:15 a.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: Vacation Time**

Good question. Spent most of the time puking. No more questions, okay?

-D

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**To: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: September 10, 2011 at 9:15 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Vacation Time**

Hey – I'll be back in the States on the 21st. We should meet up for a hunt sometime – you, me, and Sam. It's been a while.

-Faith

* * *

**October 17th, 2010, Limestone, Illinois, 9:10 p.m.**

"I have a problem."

"Yeah?"

"Got bit by a vampire."

"Your kind or mine?"

"Mine. Nasty fat middle-aged bastard. And he made me drink."

"God. Dean –"

"I'm headed to Battle Creek. Need to say goodbye to Lisa and Ben. There's no cure. I . . . I think I'm still in control because I haven't drank any human blood yet. But once I do . . ."

"What do you need?"

"Meet me at the house. If anything goes south . . ."

"I can handle you. I'll be there in four hours. Don't go in on your own. You hear me, Dean?"

"I hear you."

* * *

In the end, however, Dean didn't wait. He couldn't. Not when need and panic and rage and despair were all bubbling up inside him, headier and darker than his favorite whiskey. Not when his entire body was drowning in bitterness. He snuck in, just to say goodbye, confident in the illusion of self-control. But he had quickly been disabused of that notion.

Lisa was so soft, so beautiful, and she smelled _so_ good. Her heartbeat sounded like a drum in his ears, and Dean was filled with an ancient, insatiable hunger. Just a mouthful. That was all it would take – a mouthful of living crimson, jewel-toned and warm. He was so cold inside, so hungry.

With the last dregs of his will power, Dean wrenched himself away. But then he encountered Ben on the staircase. In an effort to leave before he did anything irreparable, he shoved the kid and escaped into the night.

The Slayer was waiting for him outside, leaning up against the driver side door of his Impala. A stake was gripped loosely in her hand, and a sheathed machete hung from her hip. Her heart beat slow and regular, although she looked up from the ground at his approach with a narrowed, unfriendly gaze.

"I told you not to go in without me," she said coolly, tossing the stake from one hand to the other. "You had another thirty seconds before I came in to kick your ass. You bite anyone?"

"No."

"Show me your teeth."

Dean bared his bloodless fangs, allowing the siren call of her blood to lure out the vampire within.

"Mmm." After watching him relentlessly for a moment, the Slayer held out her hand. "Give me the keys, cowboy. I'm driving."

* * *

Over an hour passed in wary quiet as she drove them back towards the hotel where he had left Sam. Finally, Dean spit out what was haunting him.

"You'll do it, right?"

Faith did not ask for clarification. "If I have to."

"And where are you going to draw the line?"

"Where I need to. I'm not going to let you hurt anybody, Dean. Including yourself."

"You confident that you can stop me? I'm strong now, stronger than I was before. I might even be stronger than you." He attempted for menacing, but it mostly came out sulky.

The Slayer continued to be unruffled. "I didn't give up on Angel. I'm not giving up on you either," she insisted in a calm tone.

"I could kill you." This time, he sounded desperate.

Faith glanced away from the road long enough for her gaze to lock on his. She held his eyes for a brief moment and then looked back to her driving. "So could an overweight trucker sleeping at the wheel. Never planned on living forever. And with my gig, death by vampire's kinda always been on the menu."

A beat of silence lingered in the air between them before the Slayer launched her final salvo. "Don't worry, Dean," she said grimly. "You try and send me off along that merry road the Hell, and I'm dragging you right along with me."


	105. White Picket Fences, pt 6

* * *

**October 18th, 2011, Limestone, Illinois, 6:30 a.m.**

Faith Lehane had never been one for discreet entrances. She swiped the motel room key card out of Dean's back pocket and half-ran the last few steps up to the beaten-up door. Grinning with false levity, she let herself into the room and flung the door open, pushing Dean in through the doorway ahead of her.

The fledgling vampire took in the grim walls, the practically busted furniture, and the room's two occupants. "Hi, Sam. Samuel."

Eyebrows raised, nostrils flaring, Sam rose from the sole wooden chair in the room. "Dean, where the hell did you – oh. Hi, Faith."

Her grin widening, Faith shoved the motel door shut with her foot. "Sam. Long time, no see. How was Hell?" At the drive of Dean's elbow into her ribs, she grunted, "Whatever. Anyway, who's this gentleman?" Dean had already told her, but Faith liked to get into the spirit of things.

Nearly smiling in spite of himself, the older Winchester indicated, "Faith, this is our grandfather, Samuel Campbell. Samuel, this is Faith, the Vampire Slayer."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Campbell." Faith extended her hand in his general direction for him to shake. " See, they did teach me some good manners in Slayer school."

"Uh huh," Dean scoffed derisively under his breath.

Samuel shook the young woman's hand gingerly, observing her posture, the way she inserted herself between the other hunters and Dean. It was a protective stance, but protective of _whom_? He wasn't sure he wanted to know. "Enough small talk," he said brusquely. "Dean, I think I might have found a way to cure you."

* * *

**October 18th, 2011, Limestone, Illinois, 9:30 a.m.**

"Let me get this straight," Faith grumbled as she followed him out of the motel room and across the crumbling asphalt to where she had parked the Impala. "To keep from going all eeevil, you've got to get the blood of the unwashed chump that bit you in order to make a magic potion. I sum that up all right?"

"Close enough," muttered Dean in response, fumbling with the latch on the Impala's trunk. If he was going to find this vampire nest on his lonesome, he needed to rethink what weapons he was carrying on him.

The Slayer folded her arms over her stomach and glared at him. "So you're gonna go into a nest of vamps, all by yourself with some dead man's blood, trying to get your hands on an undead man's blood? With no backup?"

"Right."

"And you expect me to be okay with that?" she demanded hotly.

Dean abandoned his weapons review and turned to face her. "Faith," he said shortly, frustration welling up within him. "You can't come in with me." They'd gone through this a thousand times, but she was still balking. G-d. Of course he was friends with the most stubborn Slayer in Creation. "They'd make you in an instant. You're alive, Faith. Breathing, heart beating, alive. And you _smell_."

"I do not," the Slayer fired back with mild offense. "I took a shower while you three were working out the details of your stupid plan."

The man rolled his eyes. "Not like that. You don't smell of dirt or sweat or sex or . . . I dunno. People . . . people, they all smell like food. And Lisa smelled better than most. But there's something off about you. You smell like something else. You smell like . . . like danger. Like death."

"It's a good thing you're not trying to come on to me, Winchester. 'Cause I think you missed a few lessons back in school when they covered sweet-talking."

He let the jibe slide. "I'll be okay, Faith. Look, I told you. I'm stronger than I was before. Try me."

"Dean."

"Come on, Slayer girl. Hit me with your best shot."

"For using that line, I just might."

The Slayer had no interest in drawing this out. She feinted left and then dodged right, intent on slamming her fist into his abdomen. Outthinking her, the vampire caught her by the shoulders and wrenched sideways just as she changed directions. By catching her off balance, he was able to toss her down onto the rough gravel of the parking lot.

"Okay, okay," the woman capitulated, getting back to her feet and brushing the concrete dust off of her jeans. "You can hold your own. I'll come in with Sammy and Gramps, then. Go give 'em hell?"

"I always do."

"Yeah," Faith mumbled to herself as he slid behind the wheel of his shining black muscle car and drove away. "That's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

**October 18th, 2011, Limestone, Illinois, 10:45 a.m.**

"So . . . Sam, you never told me you boys ran with a Slayer."

Faith settled further back into the leather upholstery of Sam's black Dodge Charger. The Slayer crossed her arms over her stomach and smirked. This should be fun. And G-d knew this stake-out could sure use some livening up.

"It's a long story," started the younger hunter awkwardly.

"I think I can help riddle things out for you," Faith drawled, her fingertips tapping over the hilt of her machete. "Sammy here knows I don't keep secrets from his brother – not about the things that matter. And you two getting busted out of wherever Hades decided to stow you? That kinda falls under the heading of things that matter."

"I see," said Samuel, in tones that left Faith entirely unconvinced of his ability to see anything. The balding man cleared his throat. "How long've you known the boys, then, Faith?"

"Eight-ish years for Dean. Six or so for Sam." For some reason, she felt compelled to defend their honor. "They're pretty damn good hunters – most of the time," she amended to avoid sounding too enthused. "You should be proud of your grandsons."

"I am," came the gruff yet pleasant response. "Wouldn't've wanted them to be hunters, but . . ."

"Ya can't have everything." To her surprise, Faith found herself growing resentful. It wasn't such a bad thing, being the person who tracked down all the nasties. And at least hunters tended to have more of a choice about the whole gig.

"So when did you become the Slayer? Those're chosen or something, am I right? Can't remember too much of my lore – and there was never a lot on Slayers to begin with."

Faith pursed her lips. "Been a Slayer since '98," she said slowly. "So that's what – thirteen years now?"

"And you work with hunters? Again, my knowledge is pretty scare, but I've never heard of that before."

"Dean and Faith are a, uh, special case," Sam interjected.

Frowning, the Slayer bit back the sarcastic comments springing to the tip of her tongue. "Like I said, Winchesters make decent hunters," she hedged. "And I'm not exactly your typical Slayer."

Although what even is typical anymore? What with all the new Slayers – the girls change so much. They're nothing like what Buffy and I were. She slumped into a momentary state of melancholic reflection, then added, "So. Samuel. Tell me more about this vampire cure of yours?"

* * *

**October 18th, 2011, Limestone, Illinois, 1:30 p.m.**

Silence roared in his ears as the warehouse finally, finally lapsed into quiet. Blood streamed past the neck of his shirt, along the waistband of his pants, dripping down his socks into his boots, which squelched as he stepped across the crimson-stained concrete to the headless body of the vampire that had bitten him. Fumbling in his pockets, he withdrew an empty syringe, then tugged down the vampire's pants.

Dean jammed his needle into the crease of the monster's groin, retracting it and then stabbing in again until he encountered the creature's femoral artery. The hunter drew back on the syringe, filling it with the darkened blood that would save him. If he could just make it that far.

The door at the top of the factory stairs creaked open, and Dean scrambled off his knees. He rose into a crouch, automatically sniffing the air as three sets of footsteps clomped across the cast iron walkway fifteen feet above him. Two of the newcomers hurried down the stairs, but his attention was drawn to the third person, the one who flipped herself up onto the iron railing, balancing in an effortless handstand before letting go and plummeting to the concrete floor below.

She landed easily on her feet, sinking into a crouch that perfectly matched his. The vampire bared his fangs in a snarl: "Slayer."

Although the word was harsh and resentful, the huntress said nothing, merely observed him with emotionless brown eyes.

"Dean!" That was his brother – too loud and too tall. "Did you get it?" the man demanded eagerly. He hurried across the floor towards Dean, but their grandfather caught him by the arm.

"Hang on, Sam," instructed the older hunter. "Give him a second."

Dean snapped his head back to the Slayer. She had moved, circling every so slightly to his left, edging in between him and the two men, moving with a lazy, languorous grace. "Stay back," he managed to get out gutturally. "Stay back. I mean it."

"Easy, tiger." The Slayer straightened up out of her stance. "No one's rushing you. You're not gonna do anything either of us is gonna regret later."

"I forgot," the vampire spat. "You're a one-fang woman. Isn't that right?"

"Gimme the blood, cowboy," said Faith as the patience drained from her voice. "The sooner we get this handled, the sooner you're back to craving cheeseburgers instead of my jugular. It's a much better deal. Trust me."

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, "Here." Dean lobbed the syringe across the three yards that separated him from the Slayer. She caught it one-handed. "Just . . . can you tell Sam to stop mouth-breathing so damn loud?"

"I can _hear_ you, Dean."

Her shoulders relaxing, Faith smirked. "I think he got the memo."

* * *

**October 18th, 2011, Limestone, Illinois, 5:00 p.m.**

Had Dean known beforehand exactly how horrible Samuel's de-vampirizing cocktail was going to taste, he might have taken a hard pass. As it was, he spent over an hour in the crappy motel bathroom riding out the aftershocks as it ripped through him like a bad combination of rotten Chinese takeout and Montezuma's Revenge. The 'cure' purged its way out through both ends as well as his skin, leaving him sweating like there was no tomorrow. When he could finally push himself away from the toilet, do up his fly, and stumble out of the bathroom, she had gone.

A man in a motorcycle had shown up, twenty minutes previous. According to Samuel, he was covered in black leather from head to toe, not even his eyes visible behind the dark lenses of his helmet. He had made a big fuss about someone inviting him into the motel room and then told Faith they had to hurry.

"Spike," Dean muttered under his breath, a little surprised. He had no idea the vampire was in the U.S., much less in town. Faith might've told him she had backup running around.

"She wanted to say goodbye," explained Sam, sensing his older brother's growing frustration. "I think she actually knocked on the door a couple times. But you were groaning your guts out too loud to hear, and her friend was getting antsy. She left a note."

Of course she had. Wordlessly, Dean held out his hand for the message and retreated to the far side of the motel room in order to read it. Faith had scribbled a few sentences, her borderline-messy handwriting slanting downwards across the torn piece of lined notebook paper.

_Sorry to run off. Always another emergency – you know how it goes. When you're not chained to the toilet, call Lisa. Talking's the first step to fixing things._

_-F_

The hunter scanned over the note, reading it once, twice, before crumpling it into a tiny ball and shooting it into the trash can. He would call Lisa – first thing in the morning. He had already been planning on it. In the meantime, however . . . Dean clutched at his stomach and darted towards the bathroom. The cure hadn't finished with him yet.

* * *

**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**To: YogiBraeden**   
**Date: October 25, 2011 5:45 p.m.**   
**Subject: Returning Your Call**

Hey. Sorry I missed your call the other day. Some idiot was trying to summon an ancient buffalo spirit in western Montana. Ended up summoning an entire herd of them. The ghost stampede got pretty ugly.

I meant to call you sooner, but it was touch and go there for a while. How are you? You and Ben doing all right?

-Faith

. . . .

**From: YogiBraeden**   
**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: October 25, 2011 7:15 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Returning Your Call**

Thanks for the email. It's not urgent, but could we talk sometime? I need to ask you a few questions.

-Lisa

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**To: YogiBraeden**   
**Date: October 25, 2011 7:32 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: Returning Your Call**

Sure thing. Probably be the end of the week or so. That okay?

. . . .

**From: YogiBraeden**   
**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: October 25, 2011 7:37 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: RE: Returning Your Call**

That would be perfect. During the day while Ben's in school would be best. Do you need my cell phone number?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**To: YogiBraeden**   
**Date: October 25, 2011 7:41 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Returning Your Call**   
**Nah. I've got it saved. I'll try to call Friday. Take care, Lisa.**

. . . .

**From: YogiBraeden**   
**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: October 25, 2011 7:45 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Returning Your Call**

Thanks. I mean that.

. . . .

* * *

**October 27, 2011, Libby, Montana, 2:15 p.m.**

The Slayer dropped her bottle of ibuprofen as she dove across her queen-sized motel bed in order to reach her cell phone. Surprised at the name flashing across the screen, she hit 'accept.' "Hey."

"I screwed up, Faith. I screwed up real bad."

Freezing in place, Faith nearly fell off the bed. "Lisa? What – are you okay? Is Ben okay? Did – did something happen?"

"I didn't mean – that wasn't how I wanted . . ."

"Whoah. Slow down there, Tex. Start at the beginning. What's going on?"

The woman inhaled deeply. "This past year, it's been intense. But it's also been one of the best of my life. I knew pretty much from the very first moment that Dean knocked on my door last May that things were going to be hard. But it was worth it. Dean is – was – just so fantastic. With Ben and with me. And God help me, I fell in love with him. With all the little silly things he did. And I thought that we could handle it, whatever happened."

Realizing that there wasn't an emergency, the Slayer slowly sat up and began hunting for her pain meds. She was currently on day two of an extremely unpleasant visit from her great-aunt Flo, and Advil was definitely in order. As she peered beneath the bed in search of her ibuprofen, Faith continued listening, the phone pressed to her ear.

"For a while there, we did. I mean, I wasn't always thrilled about the things he'd been holding out on me – about his family, hunting, you – but we got through it. Finally, I was feeling like things were on the upswing. Finally. Like we were over the hill. It had all started to get better. But then Sam came back."

Lisa sighed. "I kid you not, Faith. I knew right then that things were going to be different. I kept telling myself that we'd be okay, but the whole time I knew. Dean was changing – drawing back, pulling away, whatever the hell you want to call it. He wasn't really there with me anymore, not deep inside where it counted. And he started to be so controlling. I told him to hit the road, to hunt with his brother. Even if it ultimately made for less time with him, I was willing to make that sacrifice, if it meant that the time we spent together was still good. But then . . ."

"Yeah?" Faith prompted as her fingers closed over the bottle of pills.

"But then a couple of weeks ago, he showed up in the middle of the night. He was weird, Faith. Acting super weird and just wrong. And he shoved Ben."

The Slayer thought back on that night with a faint twinge of guilt. She really should have driven to their new house faster and gotten there before Dean went in alone. "Did he?"

"Yes. He did. I've been dodging his calls since then. I mean . . . You didn't know me when I was younger." She chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "The guys I dated – well, let's just say that Dean was the tamest of the lot. There's a reason I'm glad Ben's biological father isn't in the picture. But even back then, I had one hard rule, one hard line – no one was going to hit me, or any kids I ever had. And I mean No. One. Dean crossed that line."

She continued hurriedly, "I've listened to his voicemails half a dozen times. I know he says there was something supernatural going on. I know he wasn't a hundred percent him, but it doesn't change things, you know? That was my one hard line. And he crossed it.

"It's just all too much. But I didn't quite know how to tell him, and I hadn't decided what I wanted to say. That's why I avoided his calls. Earlier this morning, I finally got it all written down, exactly the way I wanted it. So I called him – but the second we started talking, all of my plans went right out the window. I just said things – all the dark, horrible things I was thinking, without any sort of filter or consideration for his feelings. It was awful."

"Sounds like it," Faith hesitated, wondering, _So why did you call me?_

Lisa swallowed. "I sent him an email, explaining all the things I didn't get to say. I did love him – I do love him. But I have to take care of Ben and myself first."

"What can I do?"

"I . . . just . . . can you call him, please? Make sure he's okay? You know how he is, Faith. He bottles up, until it's three in the morning and he's sitting alone out by his car with a bottle of Jack. Please talk to him."

"Okay," promised the Slayer. "Is there anything you need?"

Lisa laughed hysterically. "God, you mean other than for this to be over? The past two weeks have been awful. I miss him, every single day. But we can't go back. Sometimes, no matter how much you wish you could, you just can't go back."

"I understand." In theory, Faith did understand. Everyone had lines. For everyone, there was some point of no return. She had just never been really good at those sorts of things.

"Don't . . . don't be a stranger, Faith."

Appreciating how much this must be costing the other woman, the Slayer hurried to assure her, "If you and Ben ever need anything – anything at all, just call me. If you're ever concerned or you feel like something's not quite right, you call me."

"Ghostbusters much?"

"Whatever it takes." Faith paused, then spit it out. "I don't know what Dean said, and I don't know exactly what went down between the two of you. But he loves you. For whatever it's worth, he loves you."

"I know," replied Lisa, her voice breaking. "I know. That's what makes this so hard."

After a few more half-mumbled exchanges, they said goodbye. Faith stared at the cellphone in her hand for a long moment, gritting her teeth. She didn't like being drawn into the middle.

"Dammit," she grumbled as her guts were wrenched by a fresh set of cramps. The Advil was going to have to wait.

* * *

**October 27, 2011, Calumet, Illinois, 5:45 p.m.**

_Frak_ , Dean thought vehemently, glancing down at the caller ID on his phone as it buzzed demandingly on his leg.

He jerked his eyes back up to the road and tightened his hands on the steering wheel. The Slayer was the last person in the world he wanted to talk to right now. Not when he was in the middle of this frakked up case. Not when every person he spoke to kept unloading their dirty little secrets on him. But if he didn't answer, she was liable to just call again. And with Faith, he could never predict when the next impending apocalypse was due.

Frowning, he reached for the vibrating cell phone. "Hello?" he barked.

"You got a minute?" Her voice was strained and tired.

_Good_ , thought Dean selfishly. At least someone else was miserable. "Let me guess," he said gruffly. "You got something you want to get off your chest?"

"Lisa called."

His heart, already down in his toes, sank deeper through the soles of his boots. "Yeah?" Irritable was the closest he could come to unaffected. "You want to chew me out, too?"

"No," answered the Slayer carefully. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. I know how much you wanted to make things work. And whether or not it was ever going to work out forever, I'm sorry it ended like this."

Dean huffed. He did not have time for this conversation. Not right now. Before he could think better of it, the hunter unloaded, snapping out at her. He launched into a harried tirade as he described his current case, the phone call with Lisa, and Bobby's penchant for 'happy' pedicures.

"And that's not all," he finished furiously. "I'm pretty damn sure that whatever's riding around in Sam's body ain't Sam. I don't care what Bobby says. I know my little brother. And that sure as hell ain't him."

"Dean –"

"Stow it, Slayer. No damn campfire songs right now. You can go right ahead and cut the feel-good crap. Just lay it on me. What horrible secrets have you been hiding?"

A beat of silence, and then, "I'm on my period," Faith blurted. "You'd think at thirty they'd be slowing down, but I've never had cramps this bad before. The last couple months have been nasty. I'm starting to wonder if I need to go see a gynecologist. Oh, frak," she added. "Your crazy honesty curse is working on me, too."

Dean shuddered at the G-word, but he steamrollered on anyway. "I'm not even fazed," he lied. "Keep 'em coming, keep 'em coming. What else you got?"

"There's this guitar player in some punk-ass Cleveland band. I keep sleeping with him at least once every time I swing through Ohio. Don't know why – he's not that hot, I don't like his music, and the sex isn't even that good. I guess sometimes I just feel lazy and go for the easy lay?"

He had been expecting at least one story about Faith's sex life, so this confession did nothing to ruffle Dean. "That's it?" he demanded. "What – no rant about how much you hate me for quitting? For moving in with Lisa? For getting back in the game when my brother came back, but not staying in it for you?"

"Of course I hated you." The words tumbled out as if torn from her throat, and Faith sounded like she was gargling rock salt. "For like forty-eight hours last year, when I almost got ganked because I was too preoccupied with playing Dr. Phil for your girlfriend when you were being pissy. But it didn't last. And even when I'm so mad I could happily slam my knuckles into your pretty face, it doesn't matter."

"Why not?" Dean snapped. Pissy, huh? Oh, he'd show her pissy. His foot pressed harder on the accelerator.

The Slayer sucked her teeth loudly, something that she knew he hated. "Because," she muttered at last. "Because you're the only friend I've ever had who wasn't looking for something else out of it. Everyone else, they all end up using me – for sex, to kill the bad guys, to make them feel superior, to give Buffy a chance of living a normal life. Even with Angel – helping me was just another step on his road to redemption. There's never been anybody who was my friend without getting something else out of it. Nobody. Just you.

"I'm not . . ." Her voice shook. Whether with fury or something else, Dean couldn't tell. For a moment, he almost felt ashamed of himself for triggering this.

"I'm not a good person," Faith continued flatly. "There's a murderer inside of me, and she doesn't go away. I've done things that left my soul so deeply stained that it's still in oozing tatters. I can spend my whole life trying to make it better, trying to be better, but I'm never gonna be a saint. I'm never gonna be a servant of Heaven. I'm just a screw up who'll spend forever trying to make up for what she did, for who she is. I'm not good, and I never will be.

"But you –" She stopped and gulped down a deep breath. "God-damn you, Dean Winchester. Hang up the frakking phone."

Quiet now, his anger fading away, he said, "You should finish."

"Fine," the Slayer snarled. "When it's you and me, I forget all that. For a minute, it doesn't matter whether I'm a hero or a villain. I'm just me. Just Faith. And I know I can trust you – why the hell else do you think I let you stay on top for more than thirty seconds sometimes? Anybody else, and I'd be panicking so bad the guy'd leave with a broken jaw. I've never . . . I've never had anybody like you. I've never trusted anybody like you.

"And I can't give that up. So I don't care what you do, who you shack up with, how much you piss me off. That's your deal. As long as we're still good, as long as we're still five by five, I don't give a damn about the rest of it." She sputtered to a halt, then added, "G-d. I really need to take some ibuprofen. We done with your little honesty experiment here?"

"Yeah," Dean said faintly, reeling from the information overload. "We're done."

"Good." Faith sniffed once and regained her composure. "I'll call you in a few days when your case is over and when my frakking uterus isn't pitching a bitch fit over its lack of a baby. Don't kill your brother. Knock him out, tie him up, whatever you gotta do, but don't kill him."

The hunter scrambled to attempt something like their normal banter. "I'll do my best." He hesitated and then continued awkwardly, "I'm sorry about the twenty questions. Today's been a pile of utter horsesh-t. We five by five?"

"What do _you_ think, asshat?"

"That's good enough for me."


	106. Of Monsters and Men, pt 1

* * *

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: November 7, 2011 at 9:45 p.m.**  
**Subject: Three Things**

1) Apparently there are these things called alpha monsters. Like the big ol' granddaddy of the species. And they're like bigger, more souped up versions of the usual thing. Vampires got 'em, werewolves got 'em, guess even shifters got 'em.

2) Guess what? Samuel's been working for Crowley all this time. That's the crossroads demon who helped us take down Lucifer. Samuel's been hunting monsters for him, taking them captive so he can deliver 'em to Crowley. And now we're stuck working or him, too. Because of reason numero three. G-ddammit.

3) And, the cherry on top of this sh-t sundae? I got Cass to do some investigating into what's wrong with Sam. Turns out, whatever dragged him outta the Cage kinda left his SOUL behind. That's right. My prissy do-gooder little brother doesn't have a SOUL.

Can your witch friend ram his soul back up his ass like she did for Angel?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: November 8, 2011, at 12:01 a.m.**  
**Subject: RE: Three Things**

Damn, Dean. I don't even know where to start.

I'll call Willow as soon as it's a decent hour in Rio - she's off at some big magic user convention thing. No promises, but I'll see what she can do.

About Crowley - Need me to break off from Buffy's latest drama and come take him on?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: November 9, 2011 at 5:30 p.m.**  
**Subject: RE: RE: Three Things**

I swear to God. I thought Sam was a pain in my ass as a twelve-year-old, but that was nothing - NOTHING - compared to this. It's like working with a less-cool Terminator. Every time we have a job, he manages to mortally insult somebody. That used to be my deal. Please tell me you got good news from Willow.

As for the so-called 'king of hell,' I'll get to him eventually. Dealing with RainSam is kinda priority numero uno at the moment. If Ginger Spice can steal the soul back from Crowley, that'd save me a whole lotta headache.

What's Buffy got you doing this time, anyways?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: November 9, 2011, at 7:23 p.m.**  
**Subject: Private Eye**

I'm back undercover. Someone inside the Cleveland Blood Bank's been nicking the bags of red blood cells. Cops've got nothing. Becka heard about it on the grapevine at work, so guess who's now in charge of Hemoglobin Transport?

I haven't had a nine-to-five gig in forever - not really even anything in the daytime in a while - but I think it's starting to come together. One of the night janitors is a vamp, but I'm taking this slow. Definitely more than a one-fang job, and I've got no interest in missing the big fish by grabbing the little one too soon.

Willow's gonna try. She ordered herself a whole dozen Orbs of Thesulah and some safety goggles. She says it might not work, though. Pulling a soul out of the ether's tricky enough, and the Cage was built to hold the Devil. Who knows where Crowley's put it now? But we'll let you know.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: November 9, 2011 at 9:41 p.m.**  
**Subject: RE: Private Eye**

Thanks.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: November 20, 2011 at 6:15 a.m.**  
**Subject: Hey**

Any word?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: November 21, 2011 at 4:57 p.m.**  
**Subject: RE: Hey**

Will exploded six of the Orbs before she had to call it quits. Wherever Sam's soul is, it's protected by some mad mojo. I'm sorry, Dean. We'll keep looking.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: November 27, 2011 at 11:49 p.m.**  
**Subject: I Frakking Quit**

Frak it. I just got abducted by fairies. And Sam didn't even blink. Just screwed himself a hippie.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: November 28, 2011 at 5:53 a.m.**  
**Subject: WTF?**

FAIRIES? As in Sugarplum?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: November 28, 2011 at 8:24 a.m.**  
**Subject: Frak This**

No. As in the Fey. As in the 'let's kidnap humans and feed them our crazy food and force them to be our servants until they wear out and die. Or, to speed up the process, let's hunt them from horseback.' kinda fairies. I had no idea I could run that fast.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: November 28, 2011 at 11:21 a.m.**  
**Subject: RE: Frak This**

They hurt you?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: November 28, 2011 at 3:32 p.m.**  
**Subject: RE: RE: Frak This**

Tried to. But I'm okay. Your undercover blood stealing thing get settled?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: December 2, 2011 at 7:00 p.m.**  
**Subject: More or Less**

Found the vamps. Staked them. Found the human who was behind it all. Didn't stake him. Guess you could say that's progress?

Hey . . . I might got a case for you. Giles has a project out in Wisconsin. Lily, Beck, and I were going to tackle it over their Christmas break in the next couple of weeks. You and Sam down for a team up?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: December 3, 2011 at 1:48 p.m.**  
**Subject: RE: More or Less**

God, yes. Just tell us where/when to meet you.

. . . .

* * *

**December 16th, 2011, U.S. Highway 41 , just outside Peshtigo, Wisconsin, 4:45 p.m.**

Windshield wipers waving furiously, the black Chevrolet coasted along the two-lane highway. Despite the water coating the asphalt, her tires managed to find traction. Fat raindrops slid lazily down the glass of her side windows, crisscrossing their way across the slanting surface until they collided, merged, and trickled out of sight onto the door frame.

Beyond the car, winter threatened. The teasing edges of condensation on the inside of the glass hinted at the falling temperature outside. Soon, Dean knew, the rain would turn to ice or snow. He hoped to be far south by the time that happened. It wasn't for nothing that his dad had always preferred heading below the Mason-Dixon line between December and February.

The hunter fiddled vaguely with the tuning dial on his stereo. He had no expectations of anything interesting. Rural Wisconsin was not exactly rife with radio station choices. With an exasperated huff, he addressed his little brother, "Do me a favor and put in Aerosmith?"

For once, Sam complied without backtalk. He reached into the battered cardboard box filled with cassettes, his long fingers tracing over the top edges until he found the requested band. His hearty cheer juxtaposed uncomfortably with the stormy weather, he wondered, "What do you know about this case of Faith's?"

As the first chords of 'Dream On' filled the Impala, Dean grit his teeth. Ever since he'd picked his little brother up from Stanford, Sam had always been better at taking the pulse of situations – the self-professed expert on 'reading the room.' He was the one who smoothed things over with the civilians they interviewed, leaving Dean free to rocket around, ganking monsters and doing his job. But now, without Sam's soul, the roles had been reversed, and it was a constant thorn in Dean's side.

"Not much," he grumbled, spinning off the highway into a gas station parking lot and easing the car into a gentle stop. "Something about lumberjack folk legends."

"Lumberjacks?" Sam tilted his head to one side. His brow furrowed as he reached for his laptop bag. "The whole Great Lakes area used to be prime logging territory. That why we ended up in Wisconsin?"

"Yeppp." The hunter popped the final consonant and unlocked his door, retreating into the wind and wet.

The isolated silence of the parking lot was almost a relief after Sam's excessively good mood. Hands shoved into his pockets, he stood at the gas pump, waiting for the tank to fill while rain drizzled down the collar of his military jacket. Shifting his weight from side to side, Dean hummed under his breath, the faint sound carrying quietly through the damp air.

His introspection was cut short by the noise of approaching footsteps scraping along the gravel. The hunter glanced away from the meter to see a blond, blue-eyed woman rounding the far end of his car. Standing barely five foot five, she wore an open charcoal duffel coat which revealed her faded black tee beneath, the word 'Wicked' splashed across her chest in sparkling green letters.

"Howdy, stranger," she greeted him.

"Hey, Lil." Removing his hands from his pockets, Dean opened his arms for the inevitable hug. "Nice shirt," he commented when she stepped back. "Recent show of yours?"

Lily smiled and tucked a wayward golden strand behind her ear. "Little while back," she corrected. "Junior year of college."

"You play the green witch?"

"The pink one, actually."

"Huh." Dean pocketed this information. "Where's the rest of your posse?"

With a nod, the blond jerked her ponytail in the direction of the dilapidated gas station. "Faith's probably in the bathroom. She's on her third Diet Coke of the day, so we've been stopping every hour on the hour, like all afternoon. Becka's restocking the snack bag."

 _"The_ snack bag?"

"That's right. _The_ snack bag."

Pivoting on his heel, Dean turned. "Afternoon, Becka," he greeted the olive-skinned girl. She carried a giant tote in an horrendously floral print hooked over one forearm. Divided into three separate compartments, the tote contained apples, bananas, four cans of Pringles, and more candy bars than Dean could easily count. In her other hand, the brunette carried a brown paper bag, its bottom saturated with grease stains.

"Whether out in the field or at the office, Slayer needs her snacks," commented Becka seriously, her gray eyes dancing. "Can't get anything done without 'em. Note a doggone thing. I got chicken wings," she tacked on as an afterthought. "Y'all hungry?" The engineer twisted sideways, peering through the rain-streaked glass of the Impala to take a closer look at Sam. "I can go buy more."

"They'll be okay." A pointed elbow bludgeoned Dean solidly in the ribs. "Campsite's only about forty-five minutes out, and there's a Domino's on the way. Thought I'd call ahead and pick us up a couple of pizzas as we head over."

"I could do with some pepperoni." The younger Winchester finally popped open the shotgun door and stuck his head out. "Hey, Faith."

"Sam." The owner of the extremely pointy elbow cracked an ivory smile. "You work up to eating a whole pizza by yourself yet?"

"Still takes me two sittings," Sam admitted with a grin, for a moment sounding like his former self.

"We can pick up the food," interjected Dean casually, searching out the Slayer's brown eyes. The last time they met, he had been parched like the desert, wanting nothing so much as to sink his teeth into something human. He had been starving for blood – starving for her. This time, thankfully, he was only starving for cheese and grease. "You girls have any topping preferences?"

"Pineapple!" exclaimed Lily.

"Bacon!" chorused Becka.

"Extra cheese," added Faith.

Inclining his head, he addressed her specifically. "How many we need? Two?"

"Better make it three. Just to be on the safe side. You get those directions I emailed you?"

"Got 'em right here," he said, tapping his cell phone. "We'll meet you up there. You need us to get anything else?"

Faith shook her head as the Slayerettes scampered off towards a beat-up burgundy station wagon. "That should do it. Thanks." She gave each of the brothers a nod before heading to her car.

"So –" started Sam when the Slayer disappeared behind the wheel of the dark red eyesore. "Pizza?"

Nodding, Dean screwed the gas cap back on his baby. At least his brother could still read his stomach's cues. "Pizza."

* * *

After picking up three large pies smothered in extra cheese and pork-related meats at Domino's, the Winchesters carefully followed Faith's skeletal directions to the abandoned cabin where she was planning to set up camp. As the rural highway wound through the small town of Peshtigo, the lanes narrowed, and the verge of still-green grass on either side of the highway vanished. The forest crept closer and closer to the blacktop. Although the trees themselves were slimmer and shorter than Dean had expected, they were packed together so thickly that they crowded out what little daylight remained in the cold afternoon.

Ten miles out of town, he hung a left on a gravel road littered with potholes. The hunter pressed a little harder on his brakes as he dodged the tire-eating craters, his car swinging out first left and then right. Two miles later, Dean slowed the Impala still further as he turned off the road onto a path of pure dirt. Thankfully, the rain had not been as significant here, and this dirt had yet to morph into a mire.

Even so, by the time the dirt path ended, mud had splashed its way all over his baby, smearing across the tire wells and over the front hood. Shifting into park and cutting the engine, Sam and Dean stared past Faith's equally dirty station wagon at the ragged shack that she had elected to hunker down in.

Ramshackle was far too kind a word for the place, which consisted of a simple clapboard structure with a roof of faded pine shingles and a lean-to outhouse ten yards off. Dean shivered as he stepped out into the cold of the evening, the three pizzas cradled in his hands. Sam followed a few steps behind, carrying the army surplus bag with its trove of weapons.

The older hunter shoved the front door of the shack open with one shoulder. Brisk and unforgiving, the icy winter wind ruled here, too. It whipped through the holes in the wooden planking. Already, Dean found himself longing for the heat and comforting rumble of his Impala.

Faith was hard at work building a fire in the soot-stained brick fireplace, crafting a nest of twigs and dried leaves, woven over and around four sturdy logs. Just to her left, a generous stash of firewood was piled up against the wall. Freshly cut, too, by the sharp scent of cedar pervading the room.

Her fellow Slayers were occupied with dragging the mildewed couch away from the back door that led to the outhouse. The couch, along with two half-rotten wooden chairs and a lopsided table shoved into a corner, was the only furniture in the place. A stack of blankets was stowed under the table, and its top was hidden beneath an array of Slayer-preferred weaponry: crossbows, tranquilizer guns, stakes, silver knives, two heavy duty nets, and what looked like a rusted bear trap.

"Welcome to the party," mumbled Faith. Her breath gusted out in puffs of white condensation as she flicked her trusty Zeppo and held the tiny flame to the base of her kindling. "Come on," she pled in an undertone to the tiny tongues of fire, licking their slow way through the leaves. The temperature had skated its way down through the thirties all day and was now hovering at twenty-nine.

Smirking, Sam cleared the weapons to one side to make a place for Dean's pizza burden on the table. "Cold?"

Wrapped in a puffy black down coat, a thick scarf covering her ears and lower chin, Faith grunted. "Not all of us've got as much body fat as you do, Samantha." Content with her fire, the woman rose to her feet and dusted her charcoal streaked hands on the legs of her jeans.

At this cue, Lily and Becka shifted the couch a final six inches and straightened up. "Dinner time?" said the blonde hopefully.

"Story time?" said Dean with less hope and more emphasis.

"Both time," promised Faith. "In just a second. I'd like to bring some more wood in before we call it quits."

As the wisdom in this was fairly obvious, no one protested. Since they only had three axes between them, the younger Slayers elected to stay inside to finish arranging the cramped cabin. After donning gloves, the Winchesters and Faith trooped out into the woods that surrounded the shack.

Moving silently, Faith and Dean swept through a hundred foot perimeter around the clearing to gather whatever fallen tree limbs lay scattered in the damp undergrowth. They carried their finds to Sam, who had found a handy stump just behind the cabin. He split every log that they brought him, pushing them off the stump to form a quickly-growing pile. Whenever the pile became too unruly, he hallooed the girls, and Becka ran out into the frigid cold to gather another armful of firewood and transport it inside.

With everyone working furiously, the entire task took a little over thirty minutes. Soon, the three amateur loggers were hurrying inside. In their absence, Becka and Lily had moved the couch further back again to make room for a thick pile of blankets and sleeping bags spread out on the wooden floor in front of the fire.

"We're not all going to be pulling an all-nighter," Lily pointed out sensibly at the surprised look on the others' faces. "Now come on. Let's eat."

In the chilly cabin, the five monster hunters huddled around the fledgling fire with their shoulders shoved up against one another and their legs pointed towards the flames. Their fingers encased in gloves, they bolted down slice after slice of Hawaiian and pepperoni pizza, racing to finish it before it cooled any further. While they guzzled their favorite form of carbs and saturated fats, Faith updated the group between bites.

"Giles has this new obsession," she began, tomato sauce slowly creeping down her chin.

"Napkin," Becka commanded, and she shoved a square of paper towel at the older woman.

"Thanks." Faith wiped her face hastily and continued, "So anyway, what do any of you know about the lumber camps of the last two centuries?"

"Dark places," pitched in Sam. "Usually a hundred percent men. Often away from their families, working to make money by cutting down the forests. Cold, hard work. It made a lot of money, though."

"Right. The ones in Wisconsin hit their peak in the 19th century. Some are still active today, but it isn't quite the draw of people that it used to be. You know, a lot of folk legends got their start in the camps. Equal parts superstition, pranks, and truth, with some having greater legs than others. Giles has been poring through the lore, trying to sort out which is which."

Sam snorted. "Good luck. Most of the lore was oral, wasn't it? I mean, it's not like there are studies of this stuff."

His brother cleared his throat. "I think Dad mentioned a book once. Somewhere in his journal. Something like 'Fearsome Creatures?'"

"Fearsome Critters," Faith corrected him. "Giles read that one, too. It's practically a children's book, but apparently it's one of the better collections of legends. So that was kind of his jumping off point. Anyway, this place," the Slayer gestured to the room around them with her pizza crust. "This place is a replica of what used to be an office for the Weyerhauser Logging Company, back in the day. They were a pretty big operation – started out in the Mississippi River Valley and eventually worked their way out to Washington."

"I think I may have heard of them," said Sam noncommittally.

The Slayer shrugged. "Maybe. Anyway, what most people don't know is that back in 1870, Weyerhauser decided to open up a branch in Wisconsin. They took over a couple smaller operations around Peshtigo way, and – wham – the business was up and running. But then disaster struck."

Becka snickered. "As disaster always does. You're getting better at telling ghost stories."

"Huh?"

"Yeah." Lily leaned around the taller Winchester to join in on the teasing. "You should finish this one with a flashlight held under your chin. You got a light, Sam?"

Before this could devolve into too much chaos, Dean called the girls back to order with a quiet, "Focus."

"Thanks. Okay, so about a year after Weyerhauser got going, a wildfire broke out just south of Peshtigo. It had been a dry summer, and there were a few scattered grass fires going when a cold front swept in from the north. It was October 8th, 1871, and that was when everything went to hell."

Sam interjected, "That's the same day as the Great Chicago Fire."

Frowning at the constant interruptions, the Slayer replied irritate, "I know. The Peshtigo fire was the largest wildfire in US history. Burned down over a million acres. Destroyed twelve towns. An accurate death count was never made, but estimates range between fifteen and twenty-five hundred casualties. Some people died from the fire; others threw themselves into the river and either drowned or froze to death. Rumor has it that over three hundred people were buried in a single mass grave because there was no one left alive to identify them."

The Slayer paused to scarf down another bite of her crust. "At the time, the intensity of the firestorm was such that people attributed it to less than earthly causes. Some have even speculated that the Peshtigo fire and the one in Chicago are linked. Apparently some comet was passing overhead, and they think debris from the comet may have triggered both fires."

"What does Giles think?" prompted Dean, reaching across Faith's lap to fish out his third slice of Hawaiian out of the box.

"He doubts it was a comet. Also doubts that the already-burning fires and the cold front were enough to create something that could wreak that much damage. He thinks it was something else. Maybe a phoenix, maybe a really lucky Wampus Cat. To be honest, he wasn't really sure. Had this place on his list for a while – always planning to stop by some summer, do a few day's worth of research and recon.

"All was quiet on the Wisconsin front until three weeks ago, when a group of campers stayed up here for the night. Out of the four of them, only one made it back to the main road. The other three disappeared and haven't been found. The one who made it out got locked up in a psych ward – and he hung himself Monday. Cops gave up on the case a couple of days ago – just removed the crime scene tape yesterday."

"The fire and the missing campers might not be related," Sam pointed out. He tossed an empty pizza box into the fire, where it crackled and collapsed as the flames consumed it.

Exchanging a quick glance with Lily, Becka said slowly, "That's what we thought, too, when Faith first told us the story. Still, I think we can all agree it's worth checking out."

"Maybe it's one beast, maybe it's two completely unrelated things. Maybe that fourth camper was a serial killer. I don't know," admitted Faith.

"So we're playing 'Taunt the Unidentified Monster' again?" Dean surmised.

The Slayer nodded. "Exactly."

"Awesome." He plucked a clean paper towel from the stash between Becka and Faith and wiped most of the grease off his fingertips. "Let's do this."

* * *

'Doing this' proceeded at a far more sedate pace than the hunter had initially imagined. After bringing the last few sticks of firewood in, the five resumed their places by the fire and took turns flipping through a three-ring binder that Giles had assembled for Faith, containing all the information that he could dig up on his 'Fearsome Critters.' As binders went, it wasn't half bad. Still, Dean couldn't fight the feeling that they were going in blind, with no hard evidence.

Eventually, not even the firelight was enough for them to continue brainstorming. Sam, Lily, and Becka crept into sleeping bags while Dean and Faith offered to take the first watch. They sat in silence for nearly thirty minutes while the others fell asleep. Perched on one of the rickety wooden chairs, the hunter watched the flames, listening for any new sounds.

At length, Faith spoke from her seat on the floor close to the fire, her voice soft. "I've got an idea."

Dean glanced from the fire to her face and then back again. "Could be dangerous."

"I know. But I was thinking – if there actually is some critter behind all of this, we can use it. When we find this thing, we hand it over to Crowley's goons, we use them to track down the big McNasty himself, then we threaten to exorcise his sorry ass to Hell and get him to give back Sam's soul. And then we really do exorcise his sorry ass down to Hell. Whaddya think?" she concluded, both excited and wistful.

"He's got my brother's soul," Dean said. "Something tells me it's going take more than threats to get him to make a deal."

"Mmm." Faith settled further back against the wall of the logging office, scooting another inch closer to the fire. Back freezing, legs roasting, she looked across to where the faint light was reflecting off the edge of the sawed-off shotgun in Dean's lap. "Lisa called me the other day," she began cautiously. "Asked how you were."

"What did you say?" asked the hunter, more brusque than he had intended.

She lowered her voice still further. "What was I supposed to say? That you're hip-deep in shit because you got dragged back into the rat race by someone who looks like your brother but is lacking all the soft, gushy inside bits?"

"I'm pretty sure he's still got his intestines, Faith."

Faith turned her head away in feigned pique. "Whatever."

After a moment's silence, Dean pressed, "So what did you say?"

"That you're having a rough time. That you miss her. Tried to feel her out, see if she's changed her mind about trying to work through things."

The hunter smiled sourly. "A loyal wingwoman until the end."

"You know it." She exhaled. "Unfortunately, I'm not much of one lately. Lisa seems to have her decisions pretty set in stone."

"I figured. Honestly, I'm surprised things lasted as long as they did. Lisa . . ." Dean hesitated, then licked his lips. "She's one of the best things that ever happened to me, but I knew it wasn't gonna last. I'm . . . All I'm good at is killing monsters." It felt good to finally confess it out loud.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," teased Faith gently. "There's nothing wrong with being good at ganking the bad guys. Someone's got to clean up the place, or it'll be a people buffet for the nasties 'round the clock."

She met his gaze head-on. "And, yeah, sometimes it sucks that it has to be us, but if it wasn't us, it'd be someone else, and maybe they couldn't do it as well. Cause, you know, you're damn good at this job, Dean. We both are. And that's nothing to be ashamed of."

Half-rising from his chair, Dean held a finger to his lips. "Shh." There had been something. Something faint, right at the edge of his hearing, but he knew that he was not imagining it.

Faith shot to her feet and gestured emphatically. _What?_

 _Listen. Up there._ The man pointed to his ear and then to the ceiling.

Slightly high-pitched, something skittered across the pine shingles above their heads. The roof creaked. Dean cocked his shotgun and pointed it upwards.

"Up," hissed Faith softly, bending over the sleeping bodies on the floor and nudging them awake. "Get up, you three. We've got company."

Groggy, the others startled to wakefulness, slowly clambering out the pile of blankets and sleeping bags. Fully clothed, they reached for their preferred weapons: Sam for another shotgun, its shells filled with rock salt; Becka for a wickedly sharp dirk and a spritzer bottle of holy water; Lily for a stake and an iron poker. Faith lifted her old crossbow from its resting place beside the fire.

The skittering increased. Barely three feet overhead, something was moving – claws or talons or hooves, it wasn't quite clear, but there was definitely something up there. Dean followed the skittering with his shotgun, waiting for it to pause long enough in one spot to make shooting the thing worth it.

Just when he thought that he'd finally closed in on the sucker, there came a sinister pop! from the fireplace.

"MOVE!" bellowed Dean, catching Becka around the waist and tossing her towards the door. "Move move move move move!"

That was all the warning they had as Faith's carefully tended fire exploded into a great ball of heat and destruction that spiraled out across the cabin floor. They ran, fleeing out the front door one by one, sprinting across the clearing to their cars as the shack was engulfed in flames from floor to ceiling.

Fifty feet away, the sheer heat of the burning logging office was enough to sap the air from their lungs. Becka bent in half, overcome by a wave of racking coughs.

"Call 911," Dean barked to his little brother as he leapt into his car, throwing the duffle bags of supplies across the front seat. He started backing her away to a safer distance. The last thing he needed was for a spark from the flames to land near the gas tank and create another explosion. Nearby, Lily was doing the same thing with the burgundy station wagon.

"Why?" Sam asked, but he had his phone out of his pocket and was already dialing.

Running back to join the group, the older hunter eyed the flames. "Because this's too big for us to put out," he said flatly. "We're gonna need the firefighters. Make the call, Sam, and then let's get the hell out of here. Nothing we can do at this point, anyway."

Off to their left, Becka slid her dirk into its sheath on her hip. "Hey, Faith?" she started and then coughed again.

Arms crossed over her stomach, the Slayer turned from surveying the fire, frowning. "Yeah?"

"Dean's right. We should probably go before the firefighters get here. I mean, wasn't this place on the state historical register?"

Faith's frown deepened. "Shit."


	107. Of Monsters and Men, pt 2

* * *

**December 17th, Peshtigo, Wisconsin, 12:03 a.m.**

"Are you frakking kidding me? There's not a single late night diner in this place?" Dean muttered after completing his third driving circuit of the small Wisconsin town in twenty minutes. The entirety of Peshtigo consisted of approximately two square miles of housing, a short downtown strip, and one flickering stoplight. "Everything's shut down," he added petulantly.

"What'd you expect? Three thousand people live here," Sam pointed out, once again his older brother's unwelcome, unasked for voice of hyperrationality.

"Doesn't mean I have to like it," grumbled Dean. He was cold, he was tired, and something had tried to burn him alive an hour ago. All of which combined to leave him in a less than patient frame of mind. "Where's the next closest town of, like, ten thousand?"

Sam fumbled in the glove box and checked the Wisconsin atlas by the faint light of his phone screen. Bent almost in half, he peered closely at the map. As he followed the highway with his eyes, his nose hovered an inch away from the paper. "Looks like Marinette. About eight miles out."

"Okay. Let's head there. Call the other car and tell the girls, would you?"

"You got it."

Silence fell while Sam dialed out, the phone pinned between his right shoulder and his ear. "Turn left here, Dean," he directed as they approached the town stoplight for a fourth time. "Oh – hey, Beck. It's Sam. Yeah – Dean thinks we should go to Marinette for the night." He listened for a short moment. " Uh huh. Okay. We'll see you over there." He dropped the phone into his lap, where it thudded softly on the atlas. "Dean, hang a right."

Soul or no soul, Dean figured he could trust his brother with directions, so he complied. Sam might be crap at reading people these days, but his east's and west's had survived unscathed thus far.

"What do you think that was back there?" Sam asked once they had returned to the highway, striking out northeast, leaving both the town and the state parks behind.

"I dunno," admitted the older hunter grumpily. Lifting one hand from the steering wheel, he rubbed his eyes, which itched like fury. He must have caught more of the smoke from the fire than he had realized.

Sam would not be deterred. Frowning, he pressed,"I mean, bottom line, do you think the wildfire in seventy-one and the missing campers are connected?"

Occupied with taking another swipe at his burning eyes, Dean hesitated to respond. "Didn't at first. But now . . . we watched Faith make that fire, man. There was nothing in it that should've blown like that. And I definitely heard something up on the roof."

Intentionally playing devil's advocate, Sam said, "Might not be related to the missing campers. Could be a coincidence."

"Coincidences don't exist," Dean reminded him flatly. "You know that. Tonight, those campers – that much for sure is related. But whether the old wildfire is involved, I kinda doubt it."

Sam exhaled. "This isn't gonna be some quick recon and critter-bagging trip, is it?"

Dean shook his head, navigating a tight bend on the highway and keeping his focus on the road. "Nope. It's getting complicated."

"Yeah," agreed his little brother with an air of disappointment. Then he brightened, "At least we have the girls with us on this one. Lily looks pretty good these days. And Becka – well, she's always been hot, but now she's even more smok – "

"No," said Dean firmly. "Leave it alone."

"Why should I?" Sam shot back. "You didn't."

Dean had no pithy comeback for this, so he slammed down on the accelerator and drove faster.

* * *

"Too bad we lost all the sleeping bags," Lily mourned, staring out the shotgun window at the dark streets of Marinette. Apart from the Walmart two miles back, there was hardly a lit building in the town. "Then we wouldn't have to be looking around for a motel."

"It's okay," Faith replied, only half-listening. She was busy thinking of other things. That cabin fire had been too close of a call. What had she missed? Realizing the girls were still waiting for a response, she tacked on, "I'm just glad no one got hurt."

"Mmm . . . ." No one could disagree with that. As a new thought struck her, Lily observed, "Dean looked tired tonight."

Behind the wheel, the older Slayer eased off her gas pedal as they entered Marinette's sparse downtown. "Did he? I didn't notice."

"Oh, sure you didn't," the blonde snorted, tired enough to forget her verbal filter. "It's not as if the two of you spend a quarter of your time staring into each other's eyes and having silent conversations or anything."

"Plus you used to have all that eye sex."

Her attention finally caught, Faith swerved, her two left tires skimming over the center line into the opposite lane. " _Excuse me_?"

"You heard me," said Becka with relentless amusement. "Eye sex."

"It's not like you're having it now," Lily attempted to patch things up. "But you used to."

"That's not . . . I didn't . . ."

"We know," the girls chorused in unison.

Becka continued, "We know, Faith. Okay? You don't have to try and explain it to us. It's just fun to mess with you sometimes."

Even in the dark, Faith could almost hear her smirking. "Uh huh."

Attempting to change the subject, Lily broke in, "Speaking of fun, is it just me, or has Sam gotten a lot more . . . muscle-y lately?"

"Not just you," Becka assured her friend. "He's very tappable these days."

"He doesn't have a soul," Faith reminded them sharply.

The brunette was undeterred. "So it won't be any surprise if he acts like a jerk afterwards. I wonder – "

"NO," the older Slayer cut in forcefully. "You are not sleeping with him. Either of you. Bad things happen to girls who sleep with Sam Winchester. And I'm not talking the herpes kind of bad."

Mildly interested, Lily glanced away from her window. "What – you mean like his girlfriend who was killed by that demon? And that werewolf girl who he slept with and then had to shoot?"

"How do you know – "

Becka interrupted, "We've read the books. Plus, Andrew's got access to all the unpublished stuff."

"How – "

"He bribed the author, back before he went missing," the blonde supplied.

The Slayer nearly choked on her own spit. Chuck taking bribes was hardly surprising, but for Andrew to actually sink that low . . . " _What_? Why does he care? Why do _you_ care? Why is everyone so obsessed with those damn books? Never mind. I don't want to know," she mumbled.

Now was the time for one of Buffy's classic motivational speeches – perfectly designed to get the troops' minds off the gossip and back on the battle. Unfortunately, Faith had never been great at the speechifying aspect of Slayage.

"We have missing campers to track down," she spluttered. "We have a fire to investigate. Leave it be. I'm as much for late night fun as anybody, but not now. There will be no sleepovers until the job's done, capisce? We've got work to do."

* * *

**December 17th, 2011, Marinette, Wisconsin, 12:21 a.m.**

When his cell phone started ringing in his lap, Dean hurried to answer it, grateful for the reprieve from his brother. "Hey."

The woman on the end of the line was not pleased. "Hey," she said sourly. " I found a motel. Booked us a room. Two queens and a pull-out couch. You boys want to share?"

"Sounds good." Dean momentarily debated asking what her problem was but decided to let it slide tonight. It was late, and everyone was exhausted. The last thing they needed was for him to pick a fight with an already cranky Slayer. "What's the address?"

Faith rattled off, "Thirteen-oh-one Marinette Ave."

"Marinette Ave – how original. See you soon." After hanging up, Dean turned to Sam and repeated the address. "Can you get us there, Tom-Tom?"

His younger brother rolled his eyes. "I can use my phone."

It was probably more detailed than the atlas. "That'll work. Faith found us a room for the night. So everyone can get some shut-eye before the real work begins."

"I don't need sleep," Sam reminded him.

"Right." Dean had forgotten that unfortunate little fact. The reminder hit him like a bucket of ice water to the face. "So you were awake earlier – back at the logging office." It was not a question.

"Yeah," said Sam unabashedly.

The hunter blinked his stinging eyes and chewed on the inside of his lip. "How much did you hear?"

"All of it."

"Well, do me a favor and pretend you didn't, okay?" demanded Dean. "And if you're not going to sleep tonight, either fake it or do some reading. Make yourself useful."

"I can do that," agreed Sam, disturbingly compliant.

"Good. And no flirting, either."

"Dean – "

"None."

"Okay. Fine." Sam held his hands up in a gesture of innocent surrender that fooled no one. "You got it. No flirting."

* * *

True to his word, as the others slept, Sam read through the night. He began by finding an online copy of _Fearsome Critters_ and devouring it in full. Then he filched Giles' binder out of Faith's rucksack and consumed that, too. He searched his way through the internet, compiling running notes on his computer of every creature that had ever been linked to fires. When he finished that, he poured through every account of the Peshtigo wildfire that he could find – firsthand, secondhand, fifty year reflections – Sam read it all.

Every now and then, he paused to get a glass of water from the bathroom sink. He padded softly past the two younger Slayers sleeping in one bed, his brother sprawled on the other, and Faith curled up on the couch.

The hunter smirked, recalling the two-minute argument over billeting that had ended with, "Well, I win for two reasons: One, I'm shorter. Two, I'm a girl, which means chivalry says I get to do whatever I want."

"That's not how chivalry works," Dean had groaned, but when faced with a brittle Slayer temper, he finally admitted defeat.

Water in hand, Sam returned to his computer, still smirking. Somehow, he had a feeling that with no audience, there would have been no argument to witness. Even without a soul, some things were incredibly predictable, and the way his brother and Faith danced around each other was one of them.

As five a.m. moved on towards six, the hunter started organizing his various notes into one cohesive form. Sam had nearly finished when six o'clock finally came and the others began moving.

First to rise was Lily, who rolled out of bed at one bleat of 'Cowboy Take Me Away' from her cell phone. Silencing the Dixie Chicks with one hand, she reached for her duffel with the other and slumped into the bathroom with a muffled "Good morning."

Five minutes into her shower, another cell phone alarm clock went off. This time, it was a crazy-maned Becka who cut Lady Gaga off mid-shriek. She gave the bathroom door handle a quick jiggle and then rammed it open with her shoulder. As she disappeared into the steam, Sam heard her mumble, "Don't worry, Lil. It's just me."

It was brushing six-thirty, and the girls had both finished showering and brushing their teeth by the time the hotel room alarm clock sounded its furious beeping. Dean groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. When the clock simply continued to ring, he opened two angry, bleary eyes, and glared at the three younger people, who were currently clustered around Sam's notebook.

"Can't one of you turn that off?" he snapped.

"Nope," said Lily cheerfully. "Early bird catches the worm, right? You'd better get moving."

"Screw that," Dean mumbled under his breath, but he reluctantly left the relative warmth of his bed for a quick trek to the toilet. On his way, he paused by the couch long enough to rattle the Slayer by the shoulder.

"Frak off," Faith grumbled, pushing his hand away.

The hunter grabbed the corner of her blanket and jerked it down to expose her to the cold room air. "Nope. If I can't sleep in, neither can you. Up and at 'em, sunshine."

Glaring up at him, the Slayer swung her legs over the side of the couch. "Call me that again, and I'll show you sunshine," she threatened vaguely.

"That sounds interesting," commented Becka. "Can we watch?" The lilt of her question was lost in the sleeve of her sweater as she coughed into her elbow.

In lieu of replying, Faith turned her glowering stare onto the younger Slayer before snatching up her backpack and leaning against the wall beside the closed bathroom door. "Hurry up, cowboy," she called through the plywood. "You're not the only one who needs to look pretty today."

* * *

Sam brushed a stray lock of hair away from his eyes. "Y'all ready?" he asked as his four-person audience wriggled from their seats on the ends of the two queen beds.

In the end, it had only taken an hour and a half for everyone to get their act together. Surprisingly, no one had gotten a black eye, what with the Slayers dancing around each other to maximize every square inch of bathroom mirror, their elbows lifted dangerously high while they applied their makeup. Eyeliner, Lily had informed him seriously, was as much a part of a Slayer as her stake. At the time, Sam had thought she was kidding. Given how dedicated the blonde was to achieving the perfect cat-eye at seven a.m., however, he was starting to reconsider.

"Lay it on us," said Dean, growing impatient with all the fan-fare. "I'm starving."

"Right." Navigating to the proper tab of his Excel sheet, Sam began. "Okay. So get this. I did some reading while the rest of you were sleeping –"

"Which is kinda creepy," Lily pointed out. "Super helpful, I'm sure, but kinda creepy."

Becka elbowed her and then coughed. "Just let him get on with it."

"Er – thanks. Anyway, so here's the deal. Of all the monsters that Tryon covers in Fearsome Critters, there's only one that he directly mentions as causing fires."

Dean leaned forward in interest. "And which one was that?"

His younger brother scrolled quickly down his spreadsheet. "Uh, it's called a Wampus Cat."

"A Wampum Cat?" echoed Faith.

"No," Sam corrected her. "A Wam-PUS Cat. Tall, stripy brown rangy things. Apparently they come in at a little larger than a bobcat and a little smaller than a mountain lion. They can stand on their hind legs, and the weirdest thing about them is they've got some sort of extendible arm – kind of like a spring-loaded thing – that they use to knock low-flying birds out of the sky."

"You're joking," Dean said in disbelief. "People think this is a real animal?"

"Um, honestly, I don't think so. Dean, did Dad ever actually tell you that he read the Tryon book? Somehow I don't think it'd've been his cup of tea, at all. Because it's pretty obviously tongue-in-cheek. Definitely not the kind of book that trades in cold hard facts."

Faith interjected. "Which is why when Giles put together that white binder he added whatever extra lore he could find from more, uh, academic sources."

"And in spite of that, there isn't much that's academic about the Wampus Cat. Anyway, whether it's real or imaginary, I don't think it's likely to be our arsonist from last night."

"Why not?" wondered Becka.

"Couple of things. For one, the lore places them mostly in Idaho, and I haven't been able to find any sightings of them in Wisconsin in the last hundred years. For two, the timing's all wrong. According to my research, Wampus Cats start forest fires only on the full moon. When moonlight from a full moon reflects off the eyes of a Wampus, it can strike sparks in dry tinder and cause a wildfire."

His older brother frowned. "And the full moon was last week."

"Exactly."

"So . . ." Lily voiced the as- yet unspoken question. "Where does that leave us?"

Sam glanced at his brother. "We need more information – on this area, on the missing hikers, on the 1871 fire. More than just a few hours of spinning around SearchTheWeb can tell us."

"Excellent. I can be library girl," Becka volunteered hurriedly. "Since this horrible coughing won't stop."

"Fine," agreed Dean as he stepped into the role of team-leader. "Sam and I'll go talk to the local boys in blue, see if we can find out anything about their investigation. Maybe lay our hands on the autopsy report of the dead hiker. Faith, you and Lily mind heading back out to the logging office? In case there's anything we missed in the dark last night."

"You got it, chief," Lily answered for Faith. "We're on it. Just one thing: team breakfast first?"

The hunter's stomach grumbled loudly, casting its vote. "Yeah. Breakfast first."

* * *

**December 17th, 2011, Peshtigo, Wisconsin, 9:45 a.m.**

After scarfing down a quick pancake breakfast at a Marinette diner, Sam and Dean slipped into their FBI suits and headed back along the highway towards Peshtigo. The small town police station was located in the municipal building, a seventies' monstrosity built out of orange and tan bricks with large wooden signs. A single story for most of its length, the rear of the building poked up into a second story, where bars loomed at all three windows.

"Cheery place," murmured Sam as he pulled open the glass front door and stepped into the main lobby of the municipal building. Glancing upwards, he followed the signs for the police department to the right.

"Focus," hissed Dean in an undertone. "Job now, interior design later." Edging past his little brother, he approached the officer at the front desk, a woman in her mid-forties with dark hair and even darker circles under her eyes.

"Good morning, ma'am," he began, smiling down at her. He flipped open his fake FBI badge. "I'm Agent Young, and this is Agent Angus. We're here to speak with whoever's the lead on the missing hiker case."

The woman looked up from her computer screen. Yawning, she reached for the coffee cup sitting next to her keyboard and took a long swig. "Morning, gents. We've been wondering if the Milwaukee field office was going to send somebody. I'm Deputy Sheriff Riccio."

Sam extended a hand towards her, but Deputy Riccio waved him away, downing another swallow of coffee.

"Let's forgo all the hand-shaking right now, if you don't mind," she said with a weary half-smile. "Some idiot arsonist tried to burn down the Bloch Oxbow state park last night, and we've been all hands on deck since ten-thirty. No one's had any sleep – not the firefighters, not Sheriff Parker, and definitely not me."

Coffee in hand, the deputy rose and stepped out from behind her desk. She folded her arms across her stomach. "I'm afraid we're all a little too busy at the moment to talk about the Chadwick case, but I can certainly give you the files to look over. You boys can go through them, and if you have any questions, feel free to come back by later this afternoon. The hornet's nest should have calmed down around four or so. That work okay for Uncle Sam?"

"That's great," Dean said quickly before Sam could put his polished shoe in his mouth. "Where are the files?"

"Give me just one second." Deputy Riccio retreated around the corner into what the Winchesters assumed must be the squad room. She returned half a minute later, a large cardboard box cradled in her arms. "Here's everything we got."

"Thanks." Sam reached out for the box. Heavier than it looked, the thing had to be twenty pounds if it weighed an ounce.

Apparently already dismissing them from her mind, the deputy retrieved her coffee and took another long drink. "Good luck, boys. We'll see you back here this afternoon."

With a quick nod in her general direction, the Winchesters turned and left.

Given the relative earliness of the hour, they decided to go ahead with the fifteen minute drive back to Marinette. It wasn't quite lunch time yet, and Peshtigo didn't look to be the kind of place that had an internet café. Besides, as Dean pointed out once they reached the car, everybody knew everybody else's business in little towns like Peshtigo. There was no need for the entire town to get an eyeful or an earful of their pseudo-investigation.

"Bloch Oxbow – that's where the logging office is – was," amended Sam when they were five minutes out from the police station.

"Ye-ep," was all that Dean said until they arrived back at the motel.

Splitting the giant pile of paperwork in the case box roughly down the middle, the two brothers spread out across the empty room and set to work. Minutes turned to hours, and the hours slowly crawled by as they flicked through page after page, occasionally hollering out when anything interesting turned up. Gradually, a cohesive narrative came together.

Over Thanksgiving weekend, a party of campers had received special permission from the State Wildlife service to stay overnight at Bloch Oxbow Park, which was usually closed from sunset to sunrise during the winter months. The group had been comprised of four people in their late twenties and early thirties: Stephen Chadwick, the lone survivor; Phillip Beardsley, his partner; Natalia Spencer, Stephen's coworker; and Eli Rosenthal, Natalia's fiancé. Stephen and Natalia both worked for Evergreen, a Seattle-based NGO that campaigned for the maintenance and preservation of state and federal lands.

The campers had arrived on the 25th, the day after Thanksgiving, and had eaten dinner at Mimi's, a local Peshtigo café, before driving out to Bloch Oxbow and the old Weyerhauser logging office. That was the last time that Phillip, Natalia, and Eli had been seen alive. Despite thoroughly canvassing the town, the timeline for the entire group remained blank from the afternoon of the 25th until five o'clock on the morning of the 27th, when Stephen Chadwick had been discovered alongside the highway by a trucker hurrying to make up for lost time.

Disheveled and rambling, Stephen had been brought in to the police department, where he was unable to answer any questions that the sheriff and his deputies put to him. The interview transcript from the twenty-seventh was filled with Deputy Riccio asking him, "Where are the others, Stephen? . . . I know you loved Phillip. What happened to him, Stephen?"

But although the transcript noted flinching, whimpering, and tears, Stephen had never answered. At length, when it became clear that he would not speak – or could not, as the deputy had scribbled in thin black ink in the margins of the transcript – medical care had been sought.

Mr. Chadwick was seen by two separate psychiatrists, both of whom separately concluded that he was under extreme stress and would require significant calm and rest to recover his powers of speech. And even then, noted one of the psychiatrists' recommendations, he might never recuperate enough to tell the investigators what had happened. Thus, to great police frustration, he was admitted to Clear Haven, a privately owned psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of Marinette.

In the meantime, the Peshtigo police had organized with the surrounding departments in Marinette, Harmony, Porterfield, and May Corner, as well as the State Wildlife service in order to mount a comprehensive search of Bloch Oxbow to find the three missing campers. Every day for a week straight, they had combed through the dense forest, with no results.

Not even cadaver dogs had been able to find anything. The three hounds, all of which had been brought in from Green Bay, had simply run through the park in aimless circles, barking mournfully. After seven days of this, Sheriff Parker had reluctantly called off the search. When Stephen Chadwick could speak again, they would resume searching, if his evidence pointed them in any new directions. In the meantime, if even the dogs were useless, there wasn't much that people could do.

That had been the state of affairs until the morning of the twelfth, when Stephen Chadwick had been found dangling from the ceiling fan in his hospital room, his bed sheets tied around his neck. At that point, despite the anguished phone messages from the other three families, the Peshtigo police seemed to have given up hope entirely.

The Marinette County coroner had yet to file a report, and so all Sam and Dean had on the subject was a Post-It note stuck to one of the case files that said, "See Coroner Smith for preliminary conclusions Friday."

"Wasn't that yesterday?" inquired Sam as they reached the bottom of the cardboard case box.

"Yeah," said Dean, quickly scanning through the folders to see if he had missed one. "I'm not finding anything, though."

"Me, either. Time for a trip to the morgue and then the fire site?" the younger hunter suggested, straightening his tie.

"Sounds like it," his brother agreed. "Before or after lunch?"

Sam glanced at the motel room clock. It was just after noon. "Before," he said decisively. "Hangings can be pretty gruesome. You don't want to get sick."

Although borderline ravenous, Dean acquiesced. While he knew that it would take something light-years beyond gruesome to make him lose his lunch, Sam had been remarkably non-irritating all morning, and he had no desire to throw a spanner in the works now. "Okay. Bodies before lunch it is."

* * *

**December 17th, 2011, Bloch Oxbow State Natural Area, Wisconsin, 1:00 p.m.**

Lily's boots squelched on the wet snow underfoot, and she looked ahead at the older Slayer, who had been moving through the icy woods with grim determination for a solid three hours. What with the continued fire and police presence, they had been forced to park on a little-used side road four miles away from the Weyerhauser logging office and hike their way in instead. Not for the first time, the blonde wished she had thought to pack snow shoes.

"How do you think Becka's doing?" she wondered in a quiet voice as she stepped over the bole of a particularly large fallen pine. They had passed out of cell-service range an hour ago.

The older woman shrugged. "Probably better than us," she said dryly. "Hang on." She threw out an arm, catching Lily in the chest. "Take a look at these."

Crouching down, Lily squinted at the latest set of tracks in the snow. "Four feet," she mumbled, eyeing the small paw-prints. "Each foot comes down on its own, so I guess it was walking. Four elongated toes per foot, looks like each toe ends in a claw. Could be mammal, could be reptile."

"We'll have earned our Tracking merit badges by the end of the day," joked Faith. She snapped a few quick shots of the prints on her phone. "This makes what, unknown animal number six?"

"Five," the blonde corrected her. "I'm ninety-nine point nine percent sure that number three was a deer."

"If you say so." Faith edged around the prints to take a final photo from another angle. "Too bad we don't have prints of the 'Critters' to compare these to."

"Too bad the only critters we've seen all day have been crows and squirrels."

There was nothing Faith could say to this. Apart from the various animal tracks in the snow, their daylight scouting expedition had so far proved fruitless. With the ground covered in powder six inches deep, they had found no traces of the missing campers. The logging office was still crawling with fire inspectors, and so the Slayers had been able to manage no more than a 100-yard sweep of the gutted remnants of the structure.

Now, as they slowly trekked their way back towards Becka's station wagon, they lapsed into silence. Each of them fell into her own daydreams, thinking with longing of lunch, coffee, hot chocolate – to be warm, dry, and full seemed like unachievable bliss. Lily had a sizable blister growing on the base of her left heel, and an impertinent log lurking beneath the snow half a mile previous had left her with two giant snow spots on each of her knees, the cold precipitation soaking through to her skin.

As for Faith, her motorcycle boots were not as waterproof as she had hoped, and her wet feet were speedily going numb. But that was all right, she convinced herself, scanning the forest floor for any hints of animal activity. Monster, squirrel, or fluffy little bunny rabbit, if it was running around during the day, the Slayer wanted to lay her eyes on it – and possibly her hands, too.

The return of cell service was the first sign that they were nearing the road. Faith's phone vibrated spastically in her jeans pocket, bringing a series of terse updates from Dean and Becka. The Slayer skimmed through the messages and then tucked the phone back into her pants. "Give Beck a ring, would you?" she asked Lily. "She says she's got news, and my battery's on its last legs."

"Yes, ma'am." Keeping her eyes peeled for any more malicious fallen tree trunks, the blonde quickly dialed out. Her best friend answered the phone after two short rings.

"There you are – the boys and I were starting to wonder if we should be getting worried about you. You still with Faith?"

"Yup. All in one piece. Just out of range of the cell towers, I think. We're going to have to work out a solution for that next time people come out here. Faith said you had news?"

"I do. I spent half the morning at the Peshtigo library, and then hitched a ride to the Marinette one. Long story short, I came across the old record books of Weyerhauser and some of the other logging companies – Marinette had them in Special Collections. According to the journal of the Weyerhauser foreman, this part of Wisconsin used to be riddled with 'haints,' as he called them. Haints and suspicious deaths and woodsmen who set out at night for home and never got there."

"So what you're saying is that we're in Critter Country."

Becka snickered. "That's the gist of it. And there's something else."

Because Faith was watching her impatiently, shifting her weight from one frozen foot to the next, Lily pressed, "Skip the Playbill synopsis this time. Just give me the byline."

"From what I could read, it sounds as though from time to time the logging companies would get their foremen together to discuss what to do about the critter problem."

"And?"

"Well, sometimes they would set fires in the most dangerous areas, try to see if they could smoke the monsters out of their hiding places and into the daylight."

"You think that –"

"I'd say that's a fairly plausible explanation for why they might have had so many fires burning that day back in eighteen-seventy-one, wouldn't you?"

After hanging up, Lily hurriedly passed this information along to Faith. The older Slayer's mouth tightened. "Makes sense," she concluded. "We'd better keep moving. Only about a quarter mile to go, I think."

"And then lunch?" A girl had to establish priorities.

"And then lunch."

The aspiring actress twirled in a circle, her spinning boots scattering snow to all four directions. "Food, glorious food!" she belted, her arms outstretched to the sky. "What is there more handsome?"

"That's enough. No singing Oliver! You'll scare off all the animals."

Grinning like a loon, Lily dropped her arms back down to her sides. "You recognized the musical! I'm so proud!" she exclaimed in a stage-whisper.

Faith rolled her eyes. "Come on, Lil. Like it's even that hard. You and Becka sing that same song on every road trip you've ever taken. You sing it when you're drunk, and you sing it when the wait's been too long at a restaurant, and you sing it before Christmas dinner. I couldn't forget what musical that comes from even if I tried – and believe me, I've tried. Just keep the Broadway contained until we get to the car?"

Too amused to be abashed, the blonde cheerfully followed the older Slayer. Humming along inside her own head, she began to concoct her own lyrics. _Food, glorious food! Especially when it's snowing. Food, glorious food! My hunger is growing._

Preoccupied with her song-making, Lily failed to notice the slight creaking of the trees overhead. She entertained herself momentarily by placing her feet only in Faith's footprints. _Food, glorious food! Hot, crispy, and crunching! Food, glorious food! Oh, soon I'll be munching._

Choosing to ignore Faith's request for quiet, she tilted her head back to the sky. "Food, glorious foo – Aaaarghh!"

A tree limb, roughly two feet long and four inches in diameter, came hurtling down at her from the forest ceiling above. Lily dodged aside at the last second, but the scraggly end of the branch scraped painfully across her face.

Wincing, she looked up to where a chestnut-colored blur, roughly the size of a medium dog, scampered away from where the limb had been dislodged towards the bole of the closest tree, screeching angrily. Petrified, Lily stared at the creature in an attempt to memorize its features, but it disappeared from view before she could imprint much of a picture of it in her mind.

"Well." Blood dripping from her left eyebrow onto her cheekbone, the younger Slayer turned to Faith, who was gazing after the brown blur, her phone held stationary at chest height. "That was definitely a critter."


	108. Of Monsters and Men, pt 3

* * *

**December 17th, 2011, Marinette, Wisconsin, 3:30 p.m.**

"Wow. I mean . . . Wow."

Combined with the creak of the motel door, Becka's startled yelp caught the Winchesters' attention. Sam straightened up from his stack of the case files and glanced at the two Slayers who had just walked in.

"Crap – Lily, what happened to your face?" he wondered as Faith and Lily rapidly divested themselves of their winter wear.

The blonde reached on impulse to touch her forehead with tentative fingertips. Despite doing her best in the car with a wad of napkins and a half-full bottle of water, she knew she made a less than pretty sight. That tree branch had scattered scratches everywhere from the left side of her scalp to the right edge of her chin. Most of the scrapes were superficial and would heal completely in a couple of days, thanks to her Slayer heritage. The one exception, a cut that sliced neatly through her left eyebrow, needed at least a butterfly, if not superglue or a stitch.

"Something tried to conk me on the head," she explained tersely, uncomfortable with the three pairs of intent eyes focused on her. "Pass over the binder."

While Faith tipped her boots over and dumped a sizable pile of snow onto the grungy carpet, Lily grabbed Giles' critter folder out of Sam's hands. Perching on the edge of the mattress next to Becka, she turned from one page to the next. The sheet protectors slipped easily beneath her thumb until she came to the critter she was looking for, a heavyset quadruped with long arms and the face of an angry ape. "That's it. That's the one. I'm dead certain of it. Faith?"

Shivering slightly, Faith leaned over the binder and pulled up the photo of the creature on her phone. Unfortunately, the animal's silhouette was blurred by both distance and speed. "I dunno," she said slowly. "This pic's too crappy to rule it in or out. It could be."

"It is," repeated Lily with confidence. "It's an agropelter."

"An agropelter?" Dean scooted his chair closer in to the sagging wooden table and typed a few hurried words onto Sam's laptop.

"Dude," grumbled his brother in mild protest.

"Sorry, sorry, I know it's like your girlfriend. Just gimme a sec, Sam." The hunter clicked repeatedly on the laptop trackpad. "Refreshing my memory on agropelters . . . That the one they sometimes call the Widow-maker?"

Becka frowned in confusion. "I thought the Widow-maker was the name of the artery that causes the most heart attacks."

"Beats me." He scanned the webpage, his eyes darting up and down the computer screen. "Got it." Dean swiveled in his chair, turning to face the three Slayers. "I'm not saying you're wrong, Lil, but an agropelter might not be what we're looking for. According to the lore, those things usually run about the size of a chimpanzee, and they're definitely not in the running to be named the next Einstein. I don't think they'd have either the muscle or the brainpower to make three grown-ass adults disappear so well that the cadaver dogs found zilch."

"Not to mention Stephen Chadwick's autopsy report," cut in Becka. "Fill them in, Sam."

The younger hunter exhaled. "Right. Dean and I paid a call on the coroner in Marinette. The body's been shipped back to Chadwick's family in Seattle for burial, but he showed us the medical examiner's photos."

Faith's eyebrows narrowed. "Chadwick hung himself in the looney bin, right?"

"Supposedly," said Dean.

"Go on."

Sam regained control of the narrative. "Anyways, the official cause of death was asphyxiation secondary to hanging. And he did have a giant purple bruise across his neck that seemed consistent with the sheet that was found wrapped around his throat."

"But?" Becka prompted sweetly, attempting to refrain from hurrying him along to the big reveal. Her innocent tone fooled no one.

"But his chest and back were covered in claw marks – nasty, deep ones. Whatever it was that attacked him, it didn't just scratch through the skin – it went through the muscle almost all the way to the bone in some places."

"Pre- or post-mortem?" asked Faith.

"The doc thought most likely pre," replied Dean. "He was going off the amount of blood they found at the scene."

"How were the gashes arranged?" wondered Lily. "Sets of two, sets of three, sets of four –"

Sam answered for his brother. "Sets of four. The worst ones went over three inches deep."

Cheerfully snapping Giles' binder closed, the blonde pushed herself off the edge of the bed. "Right, then," she said as she trooped across the room in her socks. Each step added to the trail of wet footprints streaking along the tan carpet to her backpack. "Here's what we'll do. The agropelter may not be the monster we went looking for, but we can't just leave it in the woods. Next time, it might get the jump on somebody permanently."

The Winchesters exchanged glances. "You've got something there," agreed Dean slowly. "Any ideas on how you want to take him out?"

Surprised and flustered, Lily stopped unzipping her Red Cross first aid kit. Neither Dean nor Faith had never offered for her to take point before, not even on something that was only a part of their current problem. "The agropelter?" she hazarded, just to confirm.

"Yeah." The hunter held out his hand for the first aid kit. "Give me that."

"What?"

Pointing to Lily's forehead, Dean said matter-of-factly, "You don't want that thing to scar, and I've probably had the most experience out of any of you at fixing those."

"Okay." Lily extended the kit towards him. "Here."

The thirty-two year old set the red case on the table. He finished unzipping it and then spread the two sides open. His eyes skimmed the case's contents: scissors, tweezers, aspirin, antiseptic, and bandages in various shapes and sizes. "Huh," he scoffed. "Sam, get me our stuff?"

"You got it." Sam reached one long arm behind his chair and rooted blindly in the olive green duffel bag tucked against the wall. Then he began passing supplies up to his brother. A bottle of inexpensive vodka led out, quickly followed by a tube of super-glue, a bleach-stained red dish towel, two thick rolls of gauze, and another even thicker roll of bright blue vet wrap.

Lily stared blankly from the vodka to the dish towel and back again. "Nuh uh. You are not using that on me. Super-glue? Yes. Vodka? No. I'll just wash my face with soap and water instead."

"Your loss," said Dean with a shrug as the blonde booked it for the bathroom. After the sink started running, he tossed the capped vodka bottle to Faith, who caught it automatically. "Bottoms up, Slayer. You look like you could use it."

"Thanks." Uncapping the bottle, Faith gulped once, twice, and then set the vodka on the nightstand. "I still can't feel my feet," she admitted ruefully. "Next time we go agropelter searching, doubling up on socks might not be a bad idea. Speaking of which, I've got an idea on how we can draw the critter out."

"Oh?" Becka maneuvered around the older Slayer to screw the cap back on the vodka. The last thing they needed was for the cheap alcohol to spill onto the carpet. "What're you thinking?"

"It's simple," continued Faith with a slightly manic smile. She pitched her voice up a few decibels. "We just get Lily to start singing schmaltzy musicals again."

"Hey!" came the affronted yell from the bathroom. "I'll have you know that musical won three Tony's!"

With a grin of his own, Dean asked loudly, "Don't tell me – Oliver?"

"How did you . . ." The blonde poked her head around the bathroom corner to glare balefully at Faith. Scarlet scratches streaking their way from hairline to chin, her furious look was almost intimidating. "You told him?"

His grin widening its way into a smirk, the hunter added insult to injury. "She said that if she heard you sing 'As Long As He Needs Me,' one more time, she was going to confiscate your iPod."

Lily's eyes narrowed even further. "You wouldn't."

Dean nodded. "She seemed pretty dedicated about it, actually."

"That does seem a bit harsh, Faith," commented Becka. "You know it's her audition song."

"I know," admitted the brunette. For a moment, her smile faltered. "And you're great when you sing it, Lil. It's just that . . . you sing it a lot."

"Whatever," grumbled Lily. "You know, I think I almost had more fun getting branches thrown at me by the agropelter." Drying her face with a threadbare hand towel, she crossed the room to stand in front of Dean. "Okay, I'm ready. Super-glue me."

* * *

**December 17th, 2011, Peshtigo, Wisconsin, 4:30 p.m.**

After fixing Lily's eyebrow, the group hurriedly separated once again. Taking the Impala, Sam and Faith headed out to the Weyerhauser site. This time, with proper fake FBI identification, they would be able to actually investigate the fire as Faith had been unable to earlier this morning.

While his brother handled the fire, Dean climbed into the back seat of Becka's station wagon and went with the younger Slayers to the Peshtigo police department. He left them in the car, with strict orders not to draw attention to themselves, while he headed into the building to catch up with Deputy Riccio.

The deputy sheriff was less than thrilled to see him. A fresh cup of coffee in hand, she grumbled briefly about the fire department's preliminary findings and then sent him packing. Not that Dean minded. He had a sinking feeling that Lily and Becka were more than capable of getting themselves into a mess of trouble if left to their own devices. Besides, sunset was less than an hour away, and he had an agropelter to catch.

Hurrying back outside into the frigid afternoon, Dean tromped back to the burgundy eyesore, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. He had gotten all the way back to the car and was rapping with his knuckles on the back window when he realized that the vehicle was empty.

"Damn," he complained to the deserted car. "I should've known better." He fumbled with stiff fingers at the buttons on his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts. Lily, at least, should answer the phone.

Before he could dial out, however, a white four-door dually pick-up pulled into the spot next to the station wagon. Its bed was completely sealed, with three small barred doors on each side and a top that came up to the roof of the cab.

As the hunter stared blankly at the animal control truck, the driver's side window rolled down, and a familiar brunette head poked out. "Guess who found extra tranquilizers?" crowed Becka, shifting into park.

Dean approached the vehicle. "What the . . .."

"If we're going agropelter hunting, we're gonna need somewhere to put the creatures before we send them to your pal Crowley. I mean, I assume we're gonna send him the whole bunch at once."

He lowered his voice. "Did you steal –"

"Borrowed." Becka opened her wallet and flashed a Wisconsin Wildlife Service badge. "I told them the department was short on vehicles, promised to have it back within seventy-two hours."

Impressed in spite of himself, the hunter carried on. "We're still gonna need hard hats – seems like an easy way of preventing tree branch-related death."

"No worries," smiled Becka. "We got them already. Anything interesting from the police?"

Dean shook his head. "Not much. They found feathers in the ashes, but I don't know that it meant anything. Could've been a dead bird at the top of the chimney for all we know."

Lily looked up from the passenger seat with interest. "Phoenix?"

"Doubt it. No record of there being any in the area that I saw. No real record of those things even existing. Besides, this isn't Harry Potter."

"Isn't it?" wondered Becka drily. "Lil, what was the name of that companion book that came out a few years back? Not the Quidditch one – the other one."

"Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them," Lily answered.

"Exactly." Becka nodded in satisfaction. "This is just like that."

"Girls . . ." Dean dragged the word out into a short silence.

They were having too much fun with this, he thought with exasperation. Honest to G-d, he couldn't remember the last time he'd halfway liked a hunt, much less been entertained by one. It'd been at least a year. Not since Lisa. Not since Sam fell into the Cage. Heck, it had been even longer that than since he had felt as excited as Becka appeared to be now, her gray eyes dancing with delight at getting his goat. At least three years, but probably even longer.

Maybe that was where the difference lay, he concluded. As challenging and difficult as their Slayer calling could be, neither Becka nor Lily had ever come close to the horrible crap that dogged his and Sam's heels. And neither of them had ever been to Hell. If they had, he doubted they would be quite so easy to amuse.

"Come on," he said once the silence grew too awkward. "We've got the hard hats, we've got the tranquilizers, we've got the truck, Lil's got the pipes – let's go find ourselves that agropelter."

"Or the phoenix . . ."

" _Lily_."

* * *

**December 17th, 2011, Weyerhauser Logging Office, Bloch Oxbow State Park, Wisconsin, 4:45 p.m.**

One eye on the falling thermometer, Sam parked the Impala on the road a short distance away from the cabin. As Faith jumped out of the car, he quickly wrapped a scarf around his neck. Dean would give him endless crap if he caught sight of it, but it was too cold not to wear it. Following half a step behind the Slayer, he walked the two hundred muddy yards to where the fire investigators were just finishing up by the fading light of the setting sun.

"I'm Agent Angus," said Sam preemptively as they came within hollering distance of the three dedicated firemen. "This is Charity King, my crime scene photographer from the lab back at Milwaukee."

The lead fireman raised his bushy eyebrows. "Getting a little dark for photography," he pointed out the obvious.

"We know," the hunter lied smoothly. They had debated their cover story in the Impala for a good ten minutes, and then Faith had made him repeat it three times. He was beginning to realize that his brother had not been kidding when he said the Slayer got twitchy about going undercover as a Federale. "We'll come back in the morning to canvas again. Just wanted to get a feel for the place."

"Suit yourself," shrugged the older man. "Come on, boys."

Within minutes, the investigators had finished packing up their materials and were gone. The coast clear, Sam and Faith continued wandering around the edges of the giant pile of ashes that had been the logging office. Flashlights in hand, they kicked gingerly at the ash although they were not expecting to discover much. Finally, they climbed over the charred logs that had formed the porch and crossed the threshold into the burned-out shell of the cabin.

The Slayer immediately tromped her way to the fireplace. Holding her flashlight between her chin and her shoulder, she ran her gloved hands through the ashes, rifling in search of something – anything – that the fire investigators had missed. Her search proved unsuccessful, but she persevered while Sam paced the outskirts of the room, shining his flashlight into corners. Even then, all he managed to turn up was the remnants of Lily and Becka's sleeping bags.

"I can't find anything," Faith groaned after ten minutes had passed.

"Then look somewhere else." Sam shot her a weird glance. "You're kind of obsessing."

She grit her teeth. Gigantor just didn't get it. "I built the fire. I should have noticed if there was something wrong."

"You didn't cause that explosion, Faith. No guilt required."

The Slayer turned from her fireplace long enough to snark, "That what being soulless is all about? No guilt?"

He shrugged. "Kinda. Come on, Faith – did guilt ever do you any good?" Sam said too knowingly.

Faith squelched the urge to punch him. No matter how tempting, punching Sam never really worked out the way she wanted it to. "I got rid of all my pain once," she said darkly, remembering the summer when Drusilla had made her an offer too good to refuse. In her defense, she had just gotten screwed over by the deadbeat dad she thought was dead. Plus – it was two or three months into Dean's Hell-stay. Not exactly a time of perfect reasoning.

"How'd that work out?"

"Not well," she admitted with a grimace. "Don't get me wrong – at first it was fan-damn-tastic. No more anger or pain or regret. Nothing hurt – not failure, not rejection, not loneliness." Faith glanced away from the ashes to stare at Sam's face, his expression oddly blank in the twilight. "That what not having your soul's like?"

"The lows are less low," agreed Sam.

"And are the highs less high?"

"I used to think so."

"But now?"

Sam forced an uncomfortable laugh. "I don't know, Faith. I think the highs are just different."

"Hmm." She considered this for a moment and then clicked off her flashlight. Rising to her feet in one smooth movement, she crossed the ash-ridden floor, closing the distance between them in four steps. "Mind if I change the subject for a second?"

Unsure of where this was going, he said, "Go ahead."

"You let a vampire turn Dean," Faith said casually, but her tone was cold as ice and menacing enough to send a shiver down even Sam's indomitable spine.

"I knew we had a cure," he insisted. "I would never have let him get hurt if we hadn't."

"Lucky for you, I'm not some goddess of truth. I can't tell if you're lying or if you actually mean that. But let me just tell you something, Sammy –" The Slayer grabbed him by the forearms, her thumbs pressing painfully into the muscle of his biceps, and lifted.

She extended her arms as far as they would go, and in spite of the eleven-inch height difference between them, Sam's boots cleared the ground. "Listen up, Buster Brown. You don't have a soul now. And when you boil away all the existential crap, what that really means is that the day you hurt your brother is going to be a very unlucky day for you. You understand me?"

The steel in her voice was enough to convince Sam not to laugh. "Yes, ma'am. I understand you."

"All right then. It's understood."

Despite their tentative truce, Faith decided to drop him the two inches onto the charred floorboards for good measure. A little tumble into the ashes would do wonders – both for his ego and for her spirits. She suddenly released the hunter's arms, and he landed off balance. His boots hit the floor with a muffled thud, and then Sam wobbled backwards, taking one step, then two before he tumbled onto his rear. This time, he hit the planking with a creak and then a crash as the half-burned flooring gave way beneath him, and he disappeared into the darkness below.

Oops. That had not gone quite as intended. "Sam!" Faith crouched on the edge of the broken floorboards and bellowed into the blackness.

"I'm okay," came a reassuring groan and a rustling as the hunter clambered to his feet. His flashlight clicked on, illuminating a small room roughly the same size as the logging office above.

The Slayer readjusted her position and scooted a few inches backwards from the hole created by Sam's fall. "Guess we found the basement."

"Or the root cellar," mumbled Sam, swinging his flashlight from side to side to reveal walls of darkened earth. "How did the fire investigators not find this earlier?" he asked rhetorically.

"What is that formula again?" Faith teased. "Kinetic energy equals one-half mass times velocity squared? Maybe they just didn't have enough mass."

Sam did not appreciate the implied fat joke. "Cut it out. Could you stop giving me crap long enough for us to finally get something done?"

"As if," scoffed the Slayer. "You called me Charity earlier. Which is like only one step up from Chastity, as far as horrible religious names go. And wasn't Charity a prostitute in some old musical? Not to mention, you fed your brother to a vampire. In my book, I'm not even close to being finished giving you crap. Hey – what's that?" she demanded as Sam's flashlight swept into the southwest corner of the root cellar. "Go back to where you were a second ago."

The hunter shone his flashlight into the requested quadrant. Tucked into the corner of the dirt walls was a black backpack that smelled as if it was already going to mold. "Good call," he said, tossing the backpack the few inches up into the main room and back to Faith. "I'm gonna see if I can find anything else."

"Okay." Having seen the majority of the root cellar, Faith returned to rooting through her ashes. She spread her fingers wide and clawed into the soot. Suddenly her left pinky brushed against something. Faith concentrated her efforts and cleared the charcoaled debris away from her new find.

When she at last cradled the object in the palm of her hand, the Slayer stared at it in mild horror. Tracing the contours with a single finger, Faith gulped as she recognized the familiar shape. Approximately an inch and a half thick, it had a smooth, fat rounded outside edge. A small hole at the back of the object was surrounded by narrow thin bridges of material that stretched between the main body and the several sharp protrusions on the far side of the hole.

Faith tugged the glove of her free hand off with her teeth and scraped the human vertebra with her fingernail. She then gave the bone a reluctant sniff. Beneath the reek of woodsmoke, she could just barely pick out the faintest hint of pine. "Pitch," she hissed.

"What?" called Sam from the root cellar. "You find something?"

"Yeah," Faith replied slowly. "Our explosion culprit. And . . . And one of our missing campers."

* * *

"We really ought to do this in the daylight," Becka groused. Too large for her head, the orange hard hat bounced down over her eyes with every step the Slayer took.

"I know," Dean agreed. "But I thought it might be worth a look."

Leaving the red station wagon at the police department, the three of them had driven the animal control truck out to the same place on the highway where Lily and Faith had parked earlier that day. As the last rays of sunlight faded, they started hiking back into the woods. No new snow had fallen since noon, and so they were able to more or less retrace the women's footsteps towards the agropelter scene of the crime.

Lily walked out ahead of the others, her hard hat pulled carefully down over her forehead, singing softly. Her words were occasionally interrupted by a short pause as she faltered, looking for the next bootprint in the snow ahead of her. "Maybe this time I'll be lucky," she sang with quiet determination. "Maybe this time he'll stay."

"What's that from?" Dean asked Becka in an undertone. He adjusted his grip on his tranquilizer gun, grateful that he had thought to wear gloves. Now if only his coat had a taller collar. The wind whistling down his neck was growing unbearable.

"Cabaret," the brunette replied without a moment's pause. "She has an audition for a Lizzie Borden musical at the beginning of January."

Why the hell anybody would want to write a musical about Lizzie Borden was utterly beyond Dean. Letting that go, he hedged, "I thought that Oliver song was her audition piece?"

"Maybe this time, for the first time, love won't hurry away," Lily continued, stepping over a half-fallen tree trunk.

"She's got more than just the one." Becka tilted her head back and scanned the darkened trees above them. "This kinda takes me back, actually."

Since they were already trying to attract attention, the hunter figured it was easier to let her keep talking than to control the conversation. "Oh?"

Music continued to drift back to them on the night air. "He will hold me fast – I'll be home at last. Not a loser anymore – like the last time, and the time before."

"Yeah. We always used to patrol like this – back in high school if we got assigned to work together for the night and all throughout college. If we needed to attract attention, Lil would sing. Sometimes I'd bring my homework, and she'd sing my physics problems out loud."

Not for the last time, Dean reflected that Slayers were odd birds. "And that worked?"

"It definitely made Statics a more interesting class. Hey –" Becka's voice took on a wheedling tone. "I graduate with my masters degree in May. My parents are probably going to throw a giant party. You and Sam should come. Take a night off, get drunk on moderately-priced alcohol, flirt with all my college friends – go home with some ambitious co-ed."

He had to admit that he kinda liked the sound of that. "Ambitious?"

Becka snorted. "Please. Like you Winchesters aren't aware of your hotness quotient."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Hotness quotient? That's a thing?"

"You bet your ass it is."

That crossed a line. The hunter decided to remind her who was in charge here. "How old are you?" he grumbled.

Cocking her head to one side, the Slayer considered the question. "I just turned twenty-four last month. Speaking of birthdays . . ."

Dean could sense a trap ahead. "Yes?"

"You do remember that Faith's was three days ago on the fourteenth, right?"

And there it was. "What does this have to do with – "

Becka shifted her tranquilizer gun from one hand to the other. "Lily and I took her to a steakhouse and dragged her to go see Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. After that, the three of us spent most of the night chasing down a nest of vamps out near the lake. We were with her for a solid twelve hours. And not once in that time did she mention a call or a text from you."

"Your point being – "

"You shouldn't forget birthdays," pushed Becka.

Nosy little Slayers. Sticking their pointy schnozzes into all the places where they didn't belong. A wave of irritation swamped Dean, but he kept his tone neutral. "I didn't. What is this – a competition?"

"Not at all. I just wanted to remind you. It's not too late. By the rules of Slayerness, you have up to a week after the actual birthday to continue to celebrate it," the brunette informed him.

"The rules of Slayerness?" the hunter clarified, just in case he had misheard.

"Well, really the rules of Dawn, Buffy's younger sister. She's kind of communicator-in-chief of us younger generation."

"Hush. I hear something." Dean threw an arm out, stopping Becka in her tracks. "Lily – "

"You got it." The blonde cleared her throat and switched songs. "As long as he needs me," she began in a clear voice that wavered slightly in the cold. "Oh, yes, he does need me," she continued, her tone growing stronger. "In spite of what you see, I'm sure that he needs me."

On cue, a dark shadow separated itself from the trunk of the tree above and scuttled along a bough until it hovered just above the Slayer's head. It chattered angrily and reached strong, clever hands around the tree limb that it perched on. There came a _crack!_ as the limb broke. Expecting the fall, Lily easily danced aside.

_Pop_! went the tranquilizer gun in Dean's hands, and the shadow plummeted from its perch into the snow.

The three huddled around the fallen creature. Matted with ice, its brown pelt glistened in the pale yellow beam of the flashlight.

"Agropelter?" queried Becka, opening her backpack and rifling through it to pull out a large brown mesh sack. She opened the mouth of the sack.

"Agropelter," confirmed Dean as he and Lily lifted the creature and dropped it into the bag. "Come on – we'd better hurry back to the truck. I don't know how long it'll be out cold, and we need to get it into one of the cages before it wakes up."

"This thing must weigh at least fifty pounds," Lily grunted, shifting the sack over her shoulder. "What are we going to feed it?"

Dean froze in his tracks. " _Feed it?_ "

She nodded. "Of course. We can't let it starve."

The hunter mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like _"Girls."_

Choosing to ignore him, Lily resumed her song. "Who else would love him still? When they've been used so ill? He knows I always will, as long as he needs me."

Becka took one glance at the frown on Dean's face and hurried to intervene. "Lil – we've caught the agropelter. You can stop now."

"I miss him so much when he is gone – but when he's near me, I don't let onnn the way I feel inside. The love I have to hide. The hell – I've got my pride as long as he needs meeeeeee."

Enough was enough. Dean could only tolerate so much singing. He grabbed her by the shoulder. "Lily, stop."

Thunk! Something large and heavy slammed down onto the hunter's hard hat, sending him slamming down onto his knees. He blinked stinging eyes and shook his ringing head to clear it. What the hell? Another agropelter?

"Oh, G-d," Becka said from somewhere above him. She sounded sick.

"Mother of pearl," whispered Lily. "Dean . . . You need to see this."

The hunter blinked forcefully thrice more and then accepted Lily's extended hand to pull him up to his feet. He followed the guide of Becka's flashlight, pointing to the something that had bounced off his hat and landed in a snowdrift a yard off to their right. "What is –"

He fell silent as he took in the sight – soggy bone, glowing a silck, moist grey; its eye sockets two gaping hollows of dark madness; the teeth broken out of the jaws; fragments of muscle and sinew still attached at the cheeks and the chin; wispy strands of brown hair that extended past the skull's mandible.

Dean let out the breath he didn't know he had been holding. "Sh-t," he said as he exhaled, reaching out with gloved hands to lift the skull out of its icy resting place. "It's Natalia Spencer."


	109. Of Monsters and Men, pt 4

* * *

The Slayers edged closer, packing down the snow beneath their boots as they peered curiously at the decomposing skull. Faint gouges sliced through the sparse remaining tissue into the bone itself. Becka shone her flashlight into the empty eye sockets, which were rimmed with the gouges.

"Dammit, Jim, I'm an engineer, not a doctor," she said, "but either way, I'm pretty sure something other than the bugs has been gnawing on this. Those look like toothmarks to you two?"

"Teeth or claws," concurred Dean. "They're too regular to be random knife marks and too irregular to be a saw or something."

"Plus you'd kind of expect a saw to bite deeper," Lily contributed.

Nodding, the hunter replaced Natalia Spencer's skull back into its snow crater. "Yeah. Either of you see where this fell from?"

In response, the girls pointed to a thick stand of evergreen trees adjacent to the path. The shortest of the pines stretched fifty feet above their heads, and the tips of the tallest were lost against the night sky. Dean approached the largest of the trees and wove his way in through the prickly fir branches. Pine needles jabbed the exposed skin at his wrists and the back of his neck, but he ignored it. Once he reached the trunk, the hunter pointed the beam of his flashlight up towards the top of the tree.

"Can't see a damn thing," he muttered. Dean lifted his boot and placed it on the first tree limb, roughly three feet off the ground. As soon as he put his weight on it, however, the branch snapped, and his foot plunged down into the snow.

"Here," said Lily, who had followed him into the pine tree. The blonde unbuckled her hard hat and dropped it to the earth. After straightening her gloves, she gripped the cord of her flashlight in her teeth. With a muffled, "Watch this," she jumped up, catching one of the thicker branches with her hands, and pulled herself up onto the branch.

She continued climbing from there, always placing her feet exactly where the branches met the trunk. Slowly, the Slayer hoisted herself out of view. As she ascended, puffs of snow filtered down through the branches. Lily had a ninety second head start before Dean called up, "You see anything?"

"Lot of pine sap," she managed to get out around the lanyard in her mouth from fifteen feet above the others' heads.

_Don't look down,_ the blonde reminded herself, awash in the rich aroma of pine that filled her nostrils. _This is just like helping with the lighting backstage. Only a bit more like doing it while wearing a prickly Christmas tree._ Despite the irritation of the pine needles, their stringent scent was simultaneously cleansing and comforting. _At least this way,_ Lily figured, _there's something more than Dean and Becka to catch my fall._

Strains of conversation filtered up through the tree while she climbed, drifting in and out of her ears.

"If we do this one tree at a time, it's gonna take forever," came the frustrated grumble from Becka. "I'm gonna start up the next one now."

"What are you two – squirrel monkeys?" muttered Dean. Lily snorted, safe in the knowledge that neither of them could hear her.

Becka's response was lost, for the wind picked up, and all of the blonde's concentration was required not to tumble ass over teakettle out of her blue spruce. Reaching for the next branch, Lily's hand closed on something smooth and slippery – quite unlike the rough bark of the evergreen. She jerked her head, flipping her flashlight up on its cord until she could catch it between her shoulder and her chin. Then the Slayer pointed her light up towards the unexpected obstacle.

Her heart sputtered to an uneven halt, and bile surged in the back of her throat. Her favored pine smell was utterly gone now, replaced by a foul miasma of rotting flesh and something unidentifiable. Almost releasing her grip on the evergreen, Lily gazed at what she had mistaken for a tree branch. It was a skeletal forearm, and it was attached to an equally skeletal body. Both forearm and body were ravaged with claw marks, and the frayed remnants of jeans and a down coat clung to the corpse.

"Holy cheesecake!" The panicked scream exploded from a place deep inside. For a brutal half-instant, the poised professionalism that Lily had spent years perfecting was ripped away, leaving in its place the terrified fourteen-year-old musical nerd who had been accosted by Robin Wood one night after choir practice with the unwelcome news that a mystical force had chosen her to kill monsters. This is wrong, howled the voice of the child that she had been. This is wrong!

"Lily!" bellowed the man standing thirty feet beneath her. "You all right?"

_It's okay,_ Lily forced herself to remember. _It's okay. It's a dead body. Not the first one you've seen. It can't hurt you. Pull it together._

"I'm fine," she yelled down to Dean. "I think I found the rest of Natalia Spencer. It's not pretty," she added, as she clambered up onto the next branch. Breathing through her mouth, Lily gave the pockets of the corpse's coat a quick pat-down. The left pocket still contained a wallet and an iPhone. She left the wallet but slipped the cell into her own jacket.

Finished with heroics for the moment, the Slayer scrambled down the tree as quickly as she could. The branches scratched against her already cut-up face, but it did not matter. Not when every foot she descended meant that she was another foot away from the dead body.

Dean was waiting for her at the base of the tree, looking curious and concerned. He gave her a quick once-over when she hit the ground and then folded his arms across his stomach. "Well?"

"Ptooey!" Lily spit out her flashlight lanyard and ran her tongue over her top teeth. Hurrying to give her report, she said, "The body's wedged in the branches at about thirty-five feet up. Clothes are mostly gone – most of the soft tissues, too. The pine smell covers it until you get close, and then it hits you over the head with a mallet. It's too dark up there to see much, though. You're gonna need an actual CSI team to figure anything out."

"Right." The hunter pulled out his phone. "Good job, Lil. Once Becka gets down, I want the two of you to take that agropelter and head back to the truck. Get it back to Marinette. I'll wait here for the cops."

"Alone?" Lily gave a tiny involuntary shudder, one that she hoped with all her heart that Dean hadn't noticed.

"Nah. I'll get Sam and Faith to drag their asses over here. So we can give the locals the official FBI welcome." He clapped a casual hand on her shoulder. "You and Beck get the hell out of here."

Drat. He _had_ noticed. The blonde plastered an unconvincing smile on her face. "You got it, chief." She whistled piercingly, and there came a returning whistle from Becka's tree. "Good. By the way, I pulled this off the body." Lily slid the dampened iPhone out of her pocket and passed it to Dean.

The hunter turned the frozen cell phone over in his hand. "Battery's dead," he observed after holding down the lock screen.

"Becka has an iPhone. We could plug it into her charger when we get back to the motel."

Dean pursed his lips. "Cops are gonna want this."

"We can come back, find it for them in the woods tomorrow. Wear gloves the whole time we're handling it. There could be a lot of information in here – emails, gps locations, texts, calls. Maybe she kept notes for herself on the phone or something."

"And here I thought Slayers liked to obey the law," he grumbled under his breath.

"Only sometimes," replied Lily. "Right now I want to figure out what the hell ate Natalia Spencer."

"Ate?" prompted Dean, raising his eyebrows.

The Slayer nodded fiercely, the base of her ponytail bouncing up and down against the back of her head. "Ate."

"Who ate who?" Becka emerged from the thick branches obscuring her tree to join the others. As she stepped back into her own footprints, she dusted snow off of her gloved hands.

"Who ate whom," corrected her roommate automatically.

"Right." Dean was not particularly in the mood for a grammar lesson. Handing Lily back the cell phone, he began punching numbers into his own mobile. "Okay, you two," he said as the call rang out. "Take that murderous orangutan and scram."

* * *

**December 17th, 2011, Marinette, Wisconsin, 11:40 p.m.**

It was brushing midnight by the time the Winchesters and their erstwhile photographer finally extricated themselves from the new crime scene and the eagle eye of Deputy Riccio. They left the stand of evergreen trees, which was now surrounded by yellow tape and half a score of law enforcement officers. In Dean's mind, the 'Do Not Cross' tape was rather irrelevant. Anything that could read had no business being in the woods, and the things that couldn't read wouldn't have cared anyway.

He kept this particular thought to himself as he drove the last few miles back towards their motel. Neither of his passengers seemed to be in a chatty mood this evening. Sam sat silent in shotgun, reading something on his phone. As for Faith, the Slayer had stretched out lengthwise across the backseat. Even with the heater going full blast, Dean half-fancied he could hear her teeth chattering.

They stumbled in through the motel room door shortly after twelve to find the lights out. Becka and Lily lay curled up beneath the covers on their bed, the blankets pulled up past their chins. Fiddling with the radiator against the wall, Dean turned the thermostat up to seventy-five. At the moment, he would welcome a little sweat.

"Same bunks as last night?" whispered Faith, tugging off her shoes.

"Er, maybe not." As he removed his coat, Sam almost looked embarrassed. "I need to sleep somewhere tonight."

"I thought you were Mr. Indestructible now," teased Dean with a hard edge to his voice. "You don't need anything – no sleep, no food, no soul – "

"I don't need as much sleep," his little brother corrected him. "But I do need sleep tonight."

Faith stripped out of her wet socks and winced as the fabric peeled away from her skin. She glanced from one Winchester to the next and finally to the couch. "Dean," she said quietly.

The hunter met her very tired gaze and made a split-second executive decision. "You take the couch, Sammy."

Without further ado, he flicked off the room lights, getting rid of his boots, belt, and jacket in the darkness. Dean joined the Slayer under the comforter on the empty bed. He scooted over until his shoulder met hers, and then he let out a grunt of unpleasant surprise. Faith's skin was frigid.

"You need more layers," he hissed.

"You need to fix the weather," mumbled the Slayer.

Springs creaked as Sam settled himself down on the couch. "I can hear you two, you know," he whispered across the room.

Faith merely closed her eyes tighter and wriggled down further beneath the comforter, so that it completely covered her head. "Sleep time," she commanded through several layers of cotton, then adding a softer, "Good night," that was directed solely at Dean.

He nudged her with his elbow. "Good night."

* * *

"Dean – wake up."

The hunter was jolted out of his much-needed beauty sleep by a peppy voice and a hand on his shoulder. "No," he groaned softly, huddling closer to the warm outline of Lisa pressed against his side. "It isn't time for work yet," he added with eyes still closed. It was Saturday. He needed his Saturday. Later on, he could get up and make pancakes and take Ben Christmas shopping. Right now, he just wanted to stay here with the woman he loved and –

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauties!"

Becka's cheery contralto trill startled Dean back to complete awareness of his circumstances. He was somewhere in the middle-of-nowhere Wisconsin, not Cicero. The woman sleeping determinedly next to him was not his girlfriend, but a Vampire Slayer fighting off hypothermia. And Lisa did not love him – not anymore.

Awash in disappointment, Dean opened his eyes and sat up. He blinked in surprise at the sight of the motel room, which had been tidied within an inch of its life. The boxes of police documents were organized and straightened against the wall, and the other bed had been made with crisp hospital corners. Walmart bags and folded piles of clothing sat atop the faded comforter, and the entire place was filled with the aroma of bacon and donuts. "What the hell – "

"It's nine-thirty," announced a fully dressed Becka from her chair by the table. She had both the Fearsome Critters book and Sam's computer open on her lap. "Sam said you two were getting cranky last night, so we let you sleep in."

"Smartest thing Sam's done all week," said a groggy Faith, pushing herself out from under the comforter and shaking her head vigorously to wake up. She glanced around the room. "Where's breakfast?"

"What makes you think there's breakfast?" the younger Slayer caged.

"My nose," said the older woman drily. She eyed Becka closely. "You've been working on something," she surmised. "When's the big reveal?"

Becka's gray eyes flicked to the bathroom door. "Sam's in the shower. Lily's outside feeding Bob."

" _Bob_?" asked Dean, feigning more incredulousness than he felt. He might be overreacting, but at least this way he was not thinking about Lisa anymore. "Bob? Don't tell me you named the agropelter."

Faith had other priorities. "Really? You couldn't think of anything better than Bob?"

"Well, technically his full name is Archibald Griswold Robert Oliver Pelter the Third." Becka looked down at the computer screen and typed something in. "But we're going with Bob for short."

The hunter stared at her in mild incomprehension. "You realize we're handing that thing over to Crowley's minions, right? And that whatever he's going to do with it is probably going to be horrible and short-lived? Not to mention it's been trying to murder people."

"We realize," said Lily, pushing open the front door and stepping in from the cold. She had a fifteen-pound bag of dog food tucked under one arm, which she set on the carpet by the boxes of police files. The blonde unwound her scarf from over her face. "But we did need to feed him this morning, and we couldn't very well keep calling him, 'Hey You,' now could we?"

Dean turned mutely to Faith in search of moral support, but this time the Slayer was of no help.

"Sorry, dude," she shrugged. "They get like this sometimes. Bubbly blind optimism. Buffy and I are like sixty-seven percent sure that it's just their way of dealing."

Before Dean could continue to struggle as the sole voice of reason, his little brother emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing more than a towel slung around his hips. The room fell silent as the three women stared curiously at the younger hunter, devouring him with their eyes. Dean gave Faith a solid elbow to the ribs. "Seriously? You, too?"

Blinking hastily, the Slayer glanced away from Sam. "What? Your brother's got prettier abs than the last five guys I've hooked up with. You can't blame a girl for looking."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. It was too early to deal with this. "I'm taking a shower. We can have Becka's big campfire rally after that."

"Okay," replied the engineer dreamily, her gaze fixed somewhere around Sam's navel. "Just make sure you come out wearing a towel, would you? If Lil and I don't get a chance to compare and contrast, the other Slayers would never forgive us."

* * *

"So," Becka said at length, when both Winchester brothers were shirtless no longer. "While you three were sleeping, Lily and I did a little early Christmas shopping."

"Bob needed breakfast," Lily explained. "So we went to Walmart and maybe went a little crazy. Here." She fished beneath the table for a large box that bore the legend, 'Daylight Donuts.' "This is terrible for your teeth, but given all the snow-shoeing we did yesterday, Beck and I figured it was justified."

"Thanks," said Dean and Sam simultaneously. Their hands knocked against each other in mid-air as they both reached for the donuts. The brothers exchanged calculating glances, measuring one another up.

To their intense consternation, Faith swept in before either of them could win the struggle. She went up on her tiptoes and lifted the lid of the donut box. Withdrawing a chocolate-glazed and a jelly, she flopped down onto the couch and kicked her legs up over the arm. "What else did Santa bring?" she queried, eyeing the stacks of shopping bags on the other bed.

"Excellent question." Becka dumped one of the shopping bags onto her lap and began distributing presents. Besides the two bags of dog food for the agropelter, she and Lily had mainly purchased things to deal with the weather. There were two pairs of long-handled thermal underwear for everyone; three packages full of hand and foot warmers to go inside the palms of gloves or the toes of boots; and some wire contraptions called 'Moose Trax' to fit onto the bottoms of their boots.

"Merry Christmas!" Lily grinned after the last of the Moose Trax had been passed out. "And last, but certainly not least, we have the greatest gift of all!"

"You'd better watch your cholesterol, Dean," sniped Sam. "Sounds like the girls bought you a cheeseburger."

His mouth crammed full with a glazed donut, Dean gave his little brother the finger. Folding his middle finger back in, he nodded for Lily to continue.

The Slayer went on, "Y'all were still out like rocks when we got back from Walmart, so Beck and I decided to start hitting the books."

"What books?" garbled out the hunter as he swallowed down a mouthful of starch and sugar.

Sam cut in here, "The notebook I told you about yesterday. The one that Faith and I found in that backpack from the root cellar."

Helping himself to the last jelly-filled donut in the box, Dean said slowly, "Go on."

"Okay." Becka and Lily sat up straighter on the edge of their bed. "Here's what we found."

Speaking quickly and with much gesticulation, the girls shared their discoveries. The backpack had in fact belonged to Stephen Chadwick. Inside, they had found a thin navy spiral notebook. Although many of its pages had been made illegible by the damp and the fire, they were able to piece together some of the movements of the campers.

"It's like a journal," the blonde explained, carefully turning one of the singed pages. "But with field notes. Take this, for example. On the day after Thanksgiving, he writes, 'We have arrived and set up camp. Natalia made contact with the office back in Seattle. They encouraged us to proceed.'"

"Proceed with what?" wondered Faith. She wiped traces of powdered sugar away from her mouth with the back of one hand.

The two younger Slayers shared a side-long glance. "That's the thing," Becka said slowly. "We don't think that they were really here to go camping. We also managed to charge Natalia's phone." She lifted the piece of black electronics off the table and unplugged it from her own charger. "No password, so I was able to get in. I skimmed through her emails and texts while Lil was deciphering the Book of Mazarbul text over there."

"Book of Mazarbul?" Dean did not get it.

"You know - like in Moria when the Fellowship finds the last record of Balin's people. _We cannot get out. They have taken the Stairway and the Second Hall. We cannot get out. They are coming. Drums, drums in the deep_ ," intoned Lily.

"That's it. You've officially been spending too much time with Andrew," Faith concluded. "What did you find on the phone?"

"All over, there's this recurrent mention of a Society. With a capital 'S.' I finally found its full name in one of Natalia's emails. Both Natalia and Stephen were members of the Society for the Protection of American Folklore Creature Welfare."

Sam's forehead wrinkled. "They take that from Harry Potter?"

"It does seem mildly plagiarized, yes," agreed Lily.

Attempting to divert the conversation from Harry Potter before the morning went too far off the rails, Dean said, "So you think that these people were here to do research?"

"They belonged to a Fearsome Critter conservation organization - seems to have been an imprint of the Evergreen NGO they worked for in Washington." Lily turned another charcoal-edged page. "But I don't think they actually were able to find any creatures. Usually you need to be out when it's dark or drunk off your socks - or acting like you're drunk off your socks - for the critters to take a special interest in you."

"Which is increasingly what we think happened," Becka took over easily. "There are texts between Natalia and Stephen on the night before he was found on the highway. Seems like that was the night they were going to drink some of the alcohol that they had brought with them and try to draw the creatures out so that they could take pictures."

"Stupid," declared Dean.

"Ye-es," agreed the brunette. "It would have been better and safer if they had chosen to set up cameras like you do for deer and cougars. You have a powdered sugar mustache, by the way."

The hunter rubbed at his upper lip with the back of his sleeve.

Becka flashed him a thumb's up. "Much improved. Given what Lil saw last night, we've drawn up a list of potential critters that may be our man-killing culprit. Pending further discussion with the medical examiner this afternoon, of course."

She held up a sheet of paper upon which had been written the following in black sharpie:

_Ball-Tailed Cat_

_Dingmaul_

_Hidebehind_

_Rumptifusel_

_Sliver Cat_

_Wampus Cat_

"Looks thorough," said Faith approvingly. Stretching, she kicked herself up off the couch. "All right," she continued with more enthusiasm than she felt. "Another day of playing critter bait, huh? Let's get to it."

* * *

_Once more into the breach,_ thought Lily with something less than cheerfulness as she returned to the woods with Faith and Dean. She carried Natalia Spencer's phone in one of her coat pockets and a stash of HotHands in the other. The temperature had plummeted to just 10 degrees above zero, and the only part of her body exposed to the elements were her eyes and an inch of skin above and below.

They parked the animal control truck in their usual off-road location and then began the long day's walk through the snowy forest. Dean had promised that they would only be out for two hours, and then there would be time for lunch before they continued exploring. In Lily's opinion, that was naively optimistic.

She was proved to be correct when, after a half hour's hike, they encountered their first critter. Faith had just led the way into a clearing surrounded by oak trees when a small bundle of fur exploded out from a dying bush, coming to a halt a foot in front of the Slayer.

"Son of a b-tch!" The brunette shouted, startled. She stared down at the creature. Fluffy and rotund, it resembled a dark brown hedgehog without the spikes. Rising onto its back legs, the critter pointed its nose up at the Slayer and sniffed loudly. Then it darted away back into the bush and disappeared from view. "What the hell was that?"

Lily quickly consulted her mental notes. "A Come-At-A-Body," she said with more confidence than she felt. "They do like to surprise people. I wondered if we'd find one. It was awfully cute, wasn't it?"

"If you ignore the heart attack it just caused me, yeah, I guess you could call it cute." Faith inhaled deeply, embarrassed that she had been taken unawares by a chocolate-colored cottonball.

"Probably a good thing it ran away," Lily continued. "I'd hate to hand a Come-At-A-Body over to Crowley. I don't think it's done anything to deserve that."

"Nothing really deserves being handed over to Crowley," said Dean in a flat, unpleasant voice. "But I've got to take him something."

On that sour note, they continued their exploration of the forest. While each of the three carried a tranquilizer gun, Dean and Faith had chosen to further arm up in accordance with their individual preferences: he with his ivory-plated Colt and a machete, and her with her favorite crossbow and a wickedly sharp steel dagger that had been an apology gift from Buffy following their latest dust-up.

To Lily's mild displeasure, she had once again been tasked with singing. Every few hundred yards or so, she launched into something from one of her favorite musicals. _Fiddler. Les Mis. Guys and Dolls. Rocky Horror. Spring Awakening. Miss Saigon. Sunset Boulevard._

"Why me?" she asked petulantly after finishing a wavering rendition of "Why God, Why?"

"Because you're the only one of us who's willing to sing that long," Dean informed her. "Now go on. Warble away, Cinderella."

And warble away she did. As the morning slowly passed, her singing proved fruitful. They flushed out not one but two more agropelters; a weasel-like creature that Faith disdainfully named a 'Tree Skink' and allowed to slink away back along its bough; and a Rumtifusel.

It was this last that proved the most dangerous. The Rumtifusel resembled nothing so much as a luxurious fur coat lying on a moldering tree stump. At first the coat appeared to be made of beaver, and then on closer inspection it seemed more like mink.

A creature of immense patience, the Rumtifusel beckoned its victims in through the sheer splendor of its pelt. Many an unfortunate woodsman had lifted the creature off its chosen stump and attempted to drape it about their shoulders, only to be pierced by the thousands of minute spikes on the ventral side of the beast. Once the Rumtifusel got its suckers onto its victim, it rapidly consumed all the blood from their bodies and the marrow from their bones.

When they found the beast, Dean did not waste any time firing off two tranquilizing rounds into the middle of its fur, where the coat appeared thickest. The Rumtifusel spasmed three times and then was still. Faith assisted in carefully bundling the nasty creature into one of their mesh animal trapping bags. With the Slayer carrying the Rumtifusel, Lily and Dean each took an agropelter apiece, and they hauled their morning's catch back to the animal control truck.

"You aren't naming these," the hunter warned as he latched the cage closed on the third and final agropelter. "Bob was bad enough."

"We'll see," said Lily. Her throat was sore, and she retrieved her thermos of coffee from the front seat. It had gone cold, but it was still better than nothing.

Snorting in amusement, the older Slayer folded her arms across her stomach and leaned against the hood of the truck. "You wanna call the others while we've got service?" she suggested. "Before we go back in and come out with a Whiffenpoof or something?"

Lily scrunched her nose. "I don't think Bloch Oxbow has a lake large enough for a Whiffenpoof."

"Like as not," Faith said agreeably. The thermals and HotHands were doing wonders for her temper. She had practically eaten her weight in donuts for breakfast, and as long as she could still feel her extremities, she was willing to spend all day out in the forest.

Dean jumped into the cab of the truck and started the engine. "Get in," he called to the Slayers. "Might as well warm up while I'm waiting for Sam and Becka to answer the phone."

Her agreeable mood slipping away, Faith frowned. "They had better answer the phone," she said in a severe tone.

To both Faith and Dean's intense relief, Sam picked up on the third ring. "Agent Young, good to hear from you," he said cheerfully, clueing his brother in on the fact that he was not alone."

Dean put the phone on speaker. "You talk to the medical examiner yet?"

"Waiting for official DNA or dental confirmation, but the M.E. thinks this is Natalia Spencer. He also says it looks like a cougar attack," Sam continued pleasantly, "- or it would, if there were any cougars in this neck of the woods."

"Huh. Anything else?"

"Two slight details that he isn't sure what to think of."

"Give 'em to me."

"There's a decent-sized fracture on the skull - looks like blunt force trauma to the back of the head."

"Uh huh. And what's the other thing."

"There are several slender puncture wounds in the skin over the sternum that extended into the bone itself. And they're notched in deep. He thinks something attached there might have been used to move Natalia up into that tree."

"You and Becka got any thoughts on that?"

"Intern Viglione thinks that there's more than a sliver of importance to this care." Sam emphasized one particular word.

Dean covered the mouthpiece of his cell phone. "Sliver?" He mulled the clue over. "That mean anything to anybody?"

Practically dancing in her seat, Lily nodded. "Sliver Cat."

"Sliver Cat?" the hunter echoed, removing his hand from the phone.

"Yes. Sliver Cat. They crouch low in trees on moonlit nights and have a very long tail with a sphere of bone on the end that has two sides: one smooth and one covered with spikes. They bash their victims with the smooth end, effectively killing them, and then drag them up into the trees with the spiked side."

"That sound reasonable to you, Agent Angus?" Dean checked with his brother.

"I'll speak with Intern Viglione. Sounds plausible to me, though."

"Yeah. Me, too." The man slipped his phone back into his pocket. He turned off the engine and opened his door. "Well, ladies, shall we?"

Faith led the way back into the woods, but she turned around and walked backwards from time to time to confer with the others. "We're still missing two bodies," she pointed out, her thumb tracing the handle of her dagger. "And we haven't seen hide nor hair of a sliver cat yet."

Checking his watch, Dean said, "It's just past one. We've got time. We can hunt ourselves a few more critters, grab dinner, then come back out here tonight. I think we may have to up the stakes, though."

"Oh?" prompted the Slayer, watching him curiously.

Lily glanced aside, feeling almost embarrassed. She wondered if they realized how they looked at each other sometimes. Shutting down so that nothing else existed, just the two of them. It took excluding others to a whole new level.

"We're gonna need to get drunk," concluded the hunter.

Faith laughed, the clear sound ringing out through the silent trees. "You're kidding me."

Embarrassment intensifying, Lily focused her attention on the woods around them. Her eyes slipped from creamy white snow to tan tree bark to green pine needles to onyx-colored horns to - wait. What was that?

She jerked her gaze back to the gap between two firs as a truly-unfortunate looking creature the size of an ox waddled its way towards them. Two black, curling horns sat on top of the square, scaled head. Four short, sturdy legs connected to an ungainly body crowned by spikes that advanced from the base of its neck to the tip of its seven-foot tail. Taken altogether, the creature resembled nothing so much as a cross between a stegosaurus and a crushed football that had been run over by a semi.

The blonde Slayer swallowed. "Uh, guys?"

"What? You don't wanna get drunk with me?" Dean was feigning offense. "Ouch, woman. That stings."

"Hang on -" Faith started to retaliate.

Lily was having none of this. "Guys!" she shouted, pointing to the advancing creature. "Hodag!"

Finally heeding her, they turned as one to stare at the creature, observing the scaled hide, impervious to any rounds that they currently carried.

"Run!" Faith ordered in the space of half an instant that it took her to recognize the Hodag. "RUN!"

The three took off through the trees at a dead-sprint, tranquilizer guns bouncing uselessly against their backs.

"HOW DO WE KILL THESE THINGS AGAIN?" demanded Faith breathlessly.

"LEMONS, FAITH! LEMONS!" shouted Dean, running at her heels. "YOU HAVE TO THROW LEMONS AT THEM."

"WELL, HOW THE HELL WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT?" Faith shouted back as she hurtled over a fallen oak tree.

"EVERYONE KNOWS THAT! WHERE -" Dean paused to gasp for breath. "ARE THE LEMONS BACK AT THE TRUCK?"

"WE DON'T _HAVE_ LEMONS!"

"WE DON'T HAVE _LEMONS_?!"

"GUYS!" Lily yelled from her position at the front. "FORGET THE DAMN LEMONS. JUST RUN!"


	110. Of Monsters and Men, pt 5

* * *

**December 18th, Bloch Oxbow State Park, Wisconsin, 7:30 p.m.**

"Lemons?" Becka wiped an icy tear away from the corner of her eye. "Seriously, lemons?"

"We had to run half a mile before we got enough distance on that thing. My legs are still cramped up. So it isn't that funny," said Lily, but she giggled anyway. "I swear - Andrew would have had a field day."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You're going to tell Andrew? Wouldn't that be some giant betrayal of the Slayer code?"

The Slayers in question turned as one to stare at him.

"You're really taking this Rainman act too far," complained Becka as she followed the tall man over a snow-encrusted boulder. "Just because you don't have a soul doesn't mean that gives you an excuse to be a blibbering idiot."

Not for the first time, Lily wished there had been a moment that afternoon to get Becka on her own, instead of the harried search for more information on the elusive Sliver Cat.

"Blibbering idiot?" echoed Sam in disbelief.

"Blibbering idiot," the Slayer confirmed crankily. "Honestly, if you weren't so hot you'd be annoying as hell."

That was enough. Lily stopped solidly in her tracks, forcing Sam to pull up short to avoid slamming into her. The blonde pivoted on her boot heels and shone her flashlight up into the other two people's faces.

"Okay, you two," she flicked the light from Becka's eyes to Sam's and then back again. They winced and retreated a few steps, which filled Lily with a perverse sense of pleasure. "I'm going to talk to my best friend here. Samwise, you hoof it along down the path. Don't stop, don't wait for us. Just keep walking. We'll be right along behind."

Lily held her tongue until the hunter had gotten fifteen feet ahead of them before hissing in a demanding whisper, "Why are you being so weird?"

"I'm not -" Becka started to defend herself.

"Weird," the blonde repeated, shining her light directly into her best friend's pupils for a short moment. "Super weird. Incredibly weird. Like when Xander and Dawn started dating weird. What happened on your little field trip today?"

"Nothing," insisted the other Slayer. "Nothing."

"Then why the bickering? You catch more critters with honey than with vinegar. We're supposed to be partying -" Here Lily gestured to the flask of cheap bourbon strapped to her belt - "not fighting."

The brunette grabbed her by the elbow and began dragging her down the path after Sam. "I'm not fighting."

"Beck. We're not teenagers anymore. Use your words. And stop lying to me. I know all your crap."

"He tried to flirt with me," she admitted sullenly.

Lily clicked off her flashlight. "And the problem there is?"

"Pretty No, Lil."

"Pretty . . .? Ahhh." Lily's mind swept back to a late night discussion during their sophomore year of college. They had taken over Faith's living room and were pleasantly buzzed on beer out of her fridge while they conducted one of their infamous complaining sessions about boys. Halfway through her second bottle, Becka had coined a new term: 'Pretty No." Or, to be more accurate, "Pretty, no!" It had become their go-to expression for men who were attractive until they opened their mouths and spoke.

"He used to be just Pretty," mourned the brunette under her breath. "Back when he had a soul. Now -"

"Now he's Pretty No?" Lily whispered back. "Not worth flirting with for the hook-up?"

Becka lowered her voice still further. "Not even a make-out sesh. He opens his mouth, and I just want to punch him in the face."

"Huh." The blonde mulled this over. "I think Dean and Faith seem to feel the same way – sans the make-out part."

"I know Faith does," her roommate agreed. "Apparently she threw him through the cabin floor last night."

"She what? And we missed it?" Lily laughed. "Now that I would have paid money for."`

"Yeah. Me, too," chuckled Becka, and she sighed. "Me, too."

* * *

A mile further into the forest, Faith and Dean trudged along in companionable silence. They wandered from evergreen tree to evergreen tree, following the last-known GPS from Natalia Spencer's phone in an attempt to recreate her final evening and discover the bodies of the two still-missing men. Every now and then, they passed a flask of whiskey between them. Mild inebriation was the only concession the Slayer would give to making herself into a more attractive target for the Sliver Cat.

In spite of the bone aching chill and the large hard hat rattling uncomfortably on her head, the night was almost peaceful. After the loud insanity of five adults crammed into one motel room, the ominous silence of the forest felt welcoming. She had Dean at her back and a monster to hunt. So long as the alcohol continued to keep the temperature bearable, Faith was content.

The hunter at her side appeared to feel similarly. "Drink up," he suggested in a quiet voice, offering the whiskey flask to her with an excessive flourish. "You aren't even feeling it yet."

Tonight was not the night to be tipsy, Faith wanted to remind him. Not when there were creatures in these trees who craved human flesh. Not when her ankle still twinged from twisting it while they were escaping the Hodag. Not when she had two younger Slayers to watch out for, to prevent from making her mistakes. Not when she could feel the energy building inside of her, twisting into a tight knot directly behind her belly button.

Faith Lehane had always been a little too good at losing control. But not tonight. Not with _him_ walking next to her, his presence a constant reminder that there were some things worth staying in control for.

"Thanks," she said instead, uncapping the flask and taking a quick pull of foul liquid that burned all the way down into her stomach. She returned the cheap whiskey without bothering to wipe her spit off the bottle mouth.

Unconcerned, Dean tucked the alcohol back into his coat pocket. "Another fifty yards north, and then we head back west."

"Okay." The Slayer nuzzled her nose down more firmly against the warm fabric of her scarf. She followed him stealthily, her thoughts drowned out by a mixture of whiskey and the wind. Faith concentrated on listening for any sounds of kitty claws overhead.

After they made their turn to the west, the hunter spoke again, "I think I know what caused that fire." His confidence grew as he continued, "You said that vertebra that you found was covered in pine sap."

"Pitch, yeah."

"Well, that's pretty damn flammable."

"Pretty damn," Faith agreed. "You thinking that our feline friend played Santa Claus and dropped a little present down the chimney?"

His shoulders shrugged. "Seems as logical to me as anything else. Nice knife, by the way," he added.

"Thanks." Staring at the back of his hard hat, she felt obligated to tell him, "Buffy gave it to me for my birthday."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Buff's been on a bit of a gift-giving kick lately. She's dating this warlock whose family used to be big in Hollywood back in the Golden Age. He's got a trust fund, and he likes to give her presents. I think this might have technically been a present reject."

Dean snorted. "Regift? Sounds about right for you two."

It was far too cold for Faith to bother feeling insulted. "More or less," she said complacently. "It's actually an awesome knife. And she owed me one from back in the day. Just another step on clawing our way to back to even."

The hunter paused long enough to glance at her. In the darkness, he couldn't see much, only the faint profile of her nose and chin in the moonlight. "Think you'll ever get there?" Dean asked. He intended for the question to come out neutral and light-hearted, but it didn't quite make it.

Purposefully walking into him, Faith gave the back of Dean's calf a nudge with her Moose Trax-covered boot. "Haven't you learned by now, cowboy?" she teased gently as she moved past him. "Nothing ever reaches even. It's all about the struggle."

They kept moving as the GPS led them deeper and deeper into the woods and the minute hand on Dean's watch ticked its way past eight, then past eight-thirty. Around nine o'clock, they slowly started circling back towards the old logging office. The whiskey flask was now two-thirds empty, and they were loudly revisiting an old argument: stakes versus machete in the elimination of vampires. It was all part of the plan. The more attention they drew to themselves, the sooner the Sliver Cat would try to eat them, and the sooner they could get inside, retreating to warmth, cheeseburgers, and decent whiskey.

Faith was enjoying herself immensely, retreading the familiar words and even more familiar insults, when she heard it. A slight scraping of bone against wood. She glanced upwards to see a thick gray sphere roughly five inches in diameter hurtling through the air towards them.

"Duck!" she yelled, dropping to her knees.

But Dean was not so lucky. The smooth end of the sphere struck him directly in the forehead, and he went down, out cold. Faith scrambled over the snow, knife in hand, as the sphere retreated, flipping directions in midair, and then swung angrily back towards them.

"No, you don't!" The Slayer shouted at the hidden monster. She drew Buffy's knife and slashed furiously at the tail, severing the bony sphere at the end before it could do any more damage. The knife hewed through fur and muscle and bone as easily as sliding through water, and the last foot of the Sliver Cat's tail fell to the ground, spilling a pool of crimson into the snow.

The tree branches above shook, and the air was filled with a horrible snarling. Faith looked up – and there she finally saw it. The Sliver Cat itself, a great silvery creature in the moonlight, perched on the closest limb. Built like a panther, yet larger than a panther, it howled and shrieked. Fangs bared and razor-sharp claws extended, it leapt down from its tree directly onto the Slayer.

_Frak_ , thought Faith in the half-second before the Sliver Cat landed solidly on top of her. She crashed down into the snow, tucking her chin down to her sternum to protect her neck. The Sliver Cat dragged its hindpaws into the legs of her jeans, and one of its forepaws slashed at her coat while the other scrabbled at the sturdy plastic of her hard hat.

Faith stabbed blindly upwards with her knife, the narrow leaf-shaped blade piercing through fur and skin to slide into the creature's belly. She jerked the knife loose and then attacked again, thrashing her legs in an attempt to free them. Undeterred, the Sliver Cat snarled from somewhere above her hard hat and continued to paw at her. Claws caught her left shoulder, embedding themselves through the thick material of her peacoat and digging into her skin.

"Ahh!" It came out as more of a gasp than a cry. The Slayer thought with mild longing of the walkie-talkie clipped to the back of her belt. It was useless now. With Dean unconscious, there would be no help. She was going to have to handle this herself.

_Come on, girl._ Faith kept stabbing the Sliver Cat, her knife finding its way between ribs spaces and wrecking the critter's lungs. But still she could not find the heart.

Injured and furious, the Sliver Cat began biting at her hard hat. It took the edge in its teeth and wrenched, giving Faith whiplash as it forced her chin away from her chest. Now, with her neck bared and her mind dazed, the Slayer stared upwards at the yellow eyes of the critter, yellow eyes that gleamed in the dark. Snarling, the Sliver Cat opened its jaws wide and went in for the kill.

_Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_ Four shots rang out through the trees, and four rounds entered the Sliver Cat's skull. The feline whined once and collapsed in a heavy heap atop of Faith. Blood seeped from the creature's many wounds, dripping onto the Slayer's face. Heart racing, she closed her eyes, a single tear of relief leaking out past her eyelids.

"Faith." The voice was low and hoarse with emotion. Shoving his Colt back into the waistband of his pants, Dean wrenched the carcass of the beast away from her. "You hurt?" he asked as he crouched over her. His hands flew to the buttons on her coat, which had been shredded from shoulder to hip by the Sliver Cat.

She sat up and brushed his hands away. "I'm fine," she said, unbuckling the damn hard hat and allowing it to fall to the snow. The top of her left shoulder hurt like a bitch, and her entire body would be sore as hell in the morning, but nothing was too seriously injured. Faith released her iron grip on her blood-stained dagger and looked at the rapidly cooling body of the Sliver Cat. "It just wouldn't die."

"I know." The hunter glanced down at the space between their bodies. In his moment of concern, he had half-straddled her. Now, he started to shift away.

Something in his tone sent red flags spiraling through the Slayer's mind. She turned her gaze away from the cat carcass and met his eyes. "Dean?"

"Frak this," said Dean, and he went for it. Closing the distance between them, he captured her lips with his. One gloved hand pressed down into the snow, holding himself up, and the other hand went to the back of her neck, pulling her closer to him. If Faith was surprised, she gave no sign of it, pushing herself up with her elbows while he kissed her.

For a long moment, silence once again filled the clearing. Gradually, slowly, the two monster killers sank deeper into the snow. Dean left a trail of kisses from the corner of Faith's mouth along the edge of her jaw to the pulse point directly behind and below the outer curve of her ear. The Slayer's grip tightened on his coat sleeves. Chuckling low in his throat, Dean slipped a gloved hand beneath the ripped fabric of her pea coat. The movement hitched up the back of Faith's shirt and exposed her skin to the cold snow.

Her breath catching, Faith turned her head to the side and pushed his hand away. "Hang on a sec."

"What?"

"Lisa."

Frowning, Dean sat back onto his heels and stared at her. "You turning me down?" He was surprised by how petulant his voice sounded.

The Slayer scrambled to her feet and began wiping the drying blood off the steel from her dagger. "Dude, you know me," she said in an almost-conciliatory tone. The unspoken feeling in the air had shifted from something exciting to an uncomfortable tension. "If I'm not bleeding or injured, I'm like never in the mood to turn you down."

As she tucked the dagger back into its sheath, Faith added, "But if your head's not here, if you're thinking about Lisa or somebody else, then I'm not down for that."

"You're killing the mood," Dean groaned, but he followed her lead and stood. He began policing his brass and tucked one, two, three, four shell casings into his pocket.

Faith jerked her thumb towards the dead Sliver Cat. "Kinda think that'd've killed the mood eventually, anyway." She eyed the corpse with speculation. "Burn it, leave it, take it?"

"Leave it," decided the hunter. "You really want to do this now?"

The Slayer shrugged, displaying less turmoil than she felt. She straightened the frayed shreds of her favorite coat. "Well, it's either do _this_ now and then do _that_ ," she gestured briefly at the two of them, "Or it's don't do this and don't do that. I don't got a lot of rules, and yeah, sure, we're both feelin' something, but I'm not doing this with you if you're thinkin' about somebody else. I do that enough with other people. Not gonna deal with it tonight. Not with you."

She pulled Natalia's phone out of her pocket and studied the screen before setting back off through the woods. Only a quarter mile separated them from the burned logging office, where the Impala was parked. "Come on, cowboy. Let's go."

Dean followed at her heels all the way back to the fire site, racking his brains for something to say. He didn't know what he thought, didn't know what he wanted, except that right now he wanted _her_. And back there in that clearing, the only thing he had been thinking about was her. Lisa had been nowhere on his radar - not until the Slayer brought her up.

"Faith," he finally said when they stepped through the ring of trees at the edge of the cleared acre around the logging office.

She did not bother to turn around. "What?"

The hunter half-jogged a few steps in order to overtake her. He gripped her by the shoulders. "Hey. Look at me."

Unimpressed, Faith raised her eyebrows. "I'm looking," she said with a blend of exasperation and affection.

Dean stepped forwards, pushing her against the tree they had just stepped around. As her back collided with the tree bark, the Slayer gave him a look. Even in the darkness, he could read her silent expression. This had better be good, Winchester.

He started speaking, the words coming out in a rush as he gazed at a point on the tree trunk directly over her right shoulder. "The world keeps turning upside down on me," he said in a quiet voice, barely louder than the wind. "Lisa and me - that's Gone Baby Gone. Doesn't matter how I feel about it. My brother's the Terminator. Half the time I think he'd kill me, just to see what I'd look like when I died. And hell, I'm working for frigging Crowley!"

Faith said nothing, merely shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She did not touch him, did not push him away. She simply waited for him to continue.

The hunter forged ahead, "The last few years - hell, since my dad died, it seems like nothing makes sense. The moment I get to my feet, the moment I think I understand crap, the world starts jerking again."

His eyes slowly drifted from the tree to her face. "And the one thing that doesn't change, the one person I can count on, that's you. You an' me."

Dean leaned in closer. His hands slid from her shoulders to her waist, and his voice dropped still lower, treading that fine line between sincerity and purposeful melodrama. "When it's you and me, the world stops moving," he admitted. "It gets quiet. I want you, Faith. I _need_ you." The hunter paused with his mouth a hair's breadth away from her ear. "That answer your question?" he asked almost playfully.

She hesitated and then reached forward, snagging his belt loops with her gloved fingers. "It'll do." Faith dragged him closer until his body was solidly pressed against the length of hers. She went up on to her tip-toes and looked the hunter straight in the eye. "Want, take, have," she whispered, and then she kissed him.

Having settled the preliminaries, Dean relaxed. His hands found their way back to the buttons on her coat, and he began to undo them one by one.

"Ouch," Faith grumbled a few seconds later when she barked the back of her head against the rough surface of the tree.

"We can always do this in my car," the hunter suggested, pausing on the final button.

Faith snorted. "What? And have you _Night Moves_ me? I'm not indulging your Bob Seger fetish anymore than I have to." She gave a theatrical shiver. "Besides, it'll still be frakking freezing."

That was an excellent point. He cocked his head to one side. "Motel?"

"Hotel," the Slayer countered.

"Fair enough." He took a half-step back, allowing her to move away from the tree. "What was that you said earlier? About wanting?"

"Want." Faith stepped closer to him. "Take." She pressed her mouth to his. "Have." Pulling away, she started stalking off in the direction of the Impala. "You coming?" she called over her shoulder.

A smile curving at the edges of his lips, the hunter hurried to catch up with her. "I like that. Want." Dean slid his arm around the Slayer's waist and tugged her against his side. "Take." His gloved hand meandered its way down over the curve of her hip. "Have."

 

 


	111. Of Monsters and Men, pt 6

 

* * *

Nine-forty-five, and no signs of monsters anywhere. Becka had downed the equivalent of four or five shots of bourbon at this point, but the alcohol was doing nothing to improve her irritation. She detested Sam Winchester, she despised Sam Winchester, and no amount of finely etched washboard abs was going to fix that. He was smug and over-confident, convinced of his own irresistibility. Well. She would just have to show him, wouldn't she?

Problem was, the Slayer couldn't think of a single thing that would show him. Other than punching him in the face, of course. Which even she recognized would be a bad idea at this point. She hunched her shoulders closer up to her ears and listened to Lily singing under her breath.

"You were working as a waitress at a cocktail bar when I met you." The blonde had moved on from musicals to 80's pop hits. She rammed her elbow into Sam's ribs in an attempt to include him. "Come on, dude. Your turn. Help some sisters out here?"

For unexplained reasons of his own, the hunter joined in, "I picked you out, I shook you up and turned you around. Turned you into someone new. Now five years later on, you've got the world at your feet. Success has been so easy for you. "

"Becka?"

She couldn't refuse Lily. Not when she was starting to grow hoarse. Besides - this way she could assuage her wounded pride, "But don't forget, it's me who put you where you are now - and I can put you back down, too."

The three all sang together on the chorus, "Don't you want me, baby? Don't you want me ohhhhhh? Don't you want me, baby?" Don't you want -"

"Slayer Prime to Junior," crackled a staticky voice emanating from the walkie-talkie on Becka's hip. "Come in Junior, over."

Unclipping the walkie-talkie from her belt, the Slayer raised the comm to her mouth. "Junior to Slayer Prime. We hear you, Slayer Prime."

"Any bogies on your end, Junior?"

Lily snickered, and Becka had to restrain herself from laughing. "No bogies, Slayer Prime. Just Paul Bunyan and your favorite drunk co-eds. You and Dean find any bogies?"

"Found and killed one Sliver Cat. Calling it a night. Don't wait up. Over."

Her eyebrows crept up her forehead. "Got it. Over." Becka returned the walkie-talkie to its holster and swiveled to stare at Sam and Lily. "Does that mean what I think it means?" she asked in a hushed voice, her earlier frustration abandoned.

"We can't tell Andrew," blurted Lily.

"Yeah." The brunette reached for the bourbon flask. "That would definitely be a bad idea," she concluded after taking another swallow. "You think that Sliver Cat was the only one?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. Did they find the bodies?"

"You heard as much as I did."

"If Sliver Cats are anything like cougars, they probably have a fairly large individual territory," mused Lily aloud. "Especially in winter. It would be unlikely for there to be another Sliver Cat in this part of the park . . ."

"So case closed?" said Becka tentatively.

The hunter agreed, "Case closed."

As one, the three turned and quickly began hiking back in the way that they had come. After five minutes' passed, Sam broke the silence, "I think I saw a bar in Marinette last night - one that stayed open pretty late. We could go, once we get back to the car. Grab drinks, grab food, grab whatever."

Lily considered this. "We have to feed Bob first."

"Not to mention Felicity and Fievel. And don't forget Francine."

Seventy-five percent sure that he didn't want to know, Sam wondered, "Which one of those is the Rumtifusel?"

"Francine," answered Lily definitively. "Can't you see a Francine wearing a mink coat? Or being a mink coat, as the case might be."

Her irritation continuing to soften, Becka added, "Speaking of minks, we almost named her Minerva. After the cartoon. But she's really a Francine."

"So, sure, we can grab drinks," the blonde wrapped up the ramblings. "But only drinks. We have standards."

"Standards?" queried the hunter.

"Yeppp." She popped the 'p' obnoxiously. "Beck and me, we have a solemn pact about three-ways. We call it the Bloomin' Pit rule. In other words, neither of us is interested in a three-way unless Brad Pitt or Orlando Bloom - or both - are involved. Like I said: standards. But . . . " She allowed her voice to trail away as she slinked past the hunter and took her place at the front of the group again. Channeling her best Minerva Mink, she finished her sentence, "You're welcome to buy us drinks and see how far you can get."

* * *

**December 19th, 2011, Marinette, Wisconsin, 2:30 a.m.**

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe. There was a heavy someone lying on top of her. Crushing her. Suffocating her. A heavy _man_ who reeked of campfires, sweat, and cheap alcohol. His breath was stifling against the side of Faith's neck, just as his prickly stubble scratched the hell out of her bruised shoulder. Callused hands pinioned her arms to her sides, and a tree trunk of a leg was flung over her hips. She wasn't wearing a goddamn stitch, and she was painfully aware of the fact that neither was he.

_Shit_ , thought Faith in a half-instant of panicked realization. She had screwed up. She had fallen asleep. She never fell asleep after sex. Could she slip her way out? Before whoever the hell this was decided to wake up and make her life difficult? The Slayer gave an experimental wriggle.

"Ungh," groaned the monstrosity who was squishing the air out of her lungs.

That tone was familiar. Faith froze, swamped by a wave of relief and exasperation. This changed things. "Dean," she hissed sotto voce. "Get off."

When that raised no response, she jammed her fingers into the soft spaces between his ribs. "Off," the Slayer repeated. "Off, off, off."

The hunter slept on. Aggravated, Faith placed her hands up against the front of his shoulders, managed to get a knee strategically lodged against his thigh, and prepared to push him off of her.

Just before she gave a giant heave, the man lifted his head, mumbled, "Sorry," and scooted away, his leg sliding off her, although he left one arm aimlessly draped across her stomach. That was fine. Faith could live with that. Just as long as she could breathe.

* * *

The next time that the Slayer awoke, she left her confusion behind in the land of dreams. She lay beneath the warmth of the hotel comforter, staring at the ceiling for several minutes while she reflected on the events of the last twenty-four hours. Then, giving in to the insistent demands of her bladder, she slid out of the bed and scrambled to the bathroom, pausing to grab her duffel bag off the floor as she went.

Faith took her time beneath the spray to scrub away the dirt and dried sweat that covered her skin. She cleaned off two days worth of makeup, brushed her teeth, shaved, and even braided her hair, finger-combing it into a tight French braid and then winding that into an almost-painful bun. After throwing on a pair of clean jeans, a tank top, and her navy Henley, the woman stepped back out into the main room.

In her absence, Dean had finally gotten out of bed. The hunter was seated at the hotel room table, fully clothed, thumbing through something on his phone and scribbling notes onto the Best Western notepad. He glanced up as the bathroom door creaked open.

"For a minute there, I thought you'd split," he said carefully, not really meeting her eyes. "But then I heard the shower going."

His comment took the Slayer by surprise. "I wouldn't peace out on you. You know that."

"You did the first time," the hunter pointed out mildly, referencing ancient history. He set his phone onto the table and twisted in his chair to face her.

"That was like forever ago." Faith approached him, her gaze scanning those familiar features: his green eyes, darker than usual in the half-light filtering through the window blinds; the faint freckles coursing over the bridge of his nose; his lips – lower ever so slightly fuller than the upper; the four days of scruff obscuring his chin. The Slayer took another step closer. "Besides," she said, "I would have missed the chance to say this."

Swinging her leg over the far side of the chair, Faith dropped her weight abruptly into the hunter's lap. She lowered her voice to just above a whisper and reached forward to smooth out the collar of his plaid button down. "Good morning."

"Morning." Dean purposefully kept his eyes locked on the Slayer's face. He couldn't look down, not if he was planning on having an actual conversation. "Got a flurry of texts from your girls and my brother. Sam wants me to call him when we're up. He's got questions about Sliver Cat hunting ranges."

She chose to ignore his redirect, instead observing that, "Checkout's not till eleven, you know." Although his collar was already perfectly straight, Faith continued to run her fingers over the red and blue lapels. "It's only just nine o'clock."

The hunter gave in. He allowed his gaze to fall, to appreciate the view that her clingy Henley provided. His hands released their numbing grip on the bottom of the chair. Instead, they traced their way up, moving over the fabric of her jeans, sliding along her hips, until at last they came to rest on either side of her waist.

"You suggesting round four?" he half-joked as the Slayer's fingers slipped down from his collar, skimming his sternum and stopping at the top button of his shirt.

"Why are you wearing so many layers?" she frowned, pushing the button back through its embroidered hole. Faith proceeded to the second button and then the third. "All the time. Always with the layers. Why?"

"Because, as someone reminded me yesterday, it's frakking freezing. Not as though you aren't a repeat layers offender yourself." Despite his teasing, Dean did not interfere, simply let her worry at the buttons until she was pushing the plaid off of his shoulders. The hunter shook her hands away just long enough to tug his arms loose from the shirt, which he then tossed down to the floor. "You happy now?"

"Getting there." Confident in his hold on her waist, the Slayer arched her back, tilting her chin up towards the ceiling. At the same time, she reached for her severe hairdo. Bobby pins plummeted to the carpet below as she undid first the bun and then the French braid itself. In mere seconds, ten minutes of hard work was utterly destroyed.

Giving her head one final shake, Faith straightened up and settled her hands on his shoulders. "Round four?"

Dean shifted forwards in his chair. "Round four."

* * *

"What time is it?"

The hunter glanced from the woman curled up against his side to the digital clock on the hotel room nightstand. "Ten-ten. I need a shower," he groaned, but he made no move to get up.

"Mmm," Faith agreed, propping her head up on her elbow. She traced a single lazy finger along the man's chest. "I should redo my hair."

Dean ran a hand through the mussed, half-wet tangle trapped between her head and his shoulder. "It doesn't look that bad."

"Sure, but do you really want the peanut gallery to make comments? I already know they're gonna look at me funny, and I'll feel better if they don't have any hard evidence."

"Good point." Silky and smooth, her hair slipped through his fingers. "So I was thinking . . ."

The Slayer looked up at him. "Yeah?"

"Did some internet hunting while you were in the shower, and I think there's been a Cactus Cat-associated death in Arizona. You wanna come?"

"I – "

The air around them tightened, and their ears popped. "Hello, Dean."

He knew that voice. Dean sat bolt upright. With one hand he shoved Faith back behind him, and with the other he reached beneath his pillow for a weapon and came up empty. Damn. "Crowley?" he snarled. His pulse accelerated as he realized his helplessness. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Crowley?" The Slayer pushed his hand aside and sat up, heedless of the blankets falling into her lap and leaving her torso bare. She had seen that face before. The stocky build, the receding hairline, the short dark sideburns, the British accent registering just a shade below Giles' on the poshness scale. " _You're_ Crowley?" she demanded in horrified recognition. "That's – he's – you're the crossroads demon who told me Dean was in Hell." Faith glanced quickly at the hunter by her side. "The one I summoned to convince Willow to rescue you."

Eying her duffel bag, only four feet away on the far side of the bed, she made a move calculated to offend, "So Crowley, huh? I kinda always thought you'd be taller."

The demon's eyes flashed crimson red, and he bared his teeth in a cruel smile. Crowley gave Faith a long, slow once over before speaking. "And here I always thought Slayers had larger breasts, but there you have it. We are both destined for disappointment."

He paused and turned to Dean. "Imagine my surprise when your brother made a monster drop this morning with Ginger and Maryann. 'Where's Gillian?' I asked when my people informed me. Letting soulless Skippy off the leash? That's not in the usual Winchester playbook. So I came searching – and what a surprise! Rumor downstairs had it that you and Miss Anger Management had gone your separate ways. I see the rumor was misinformed."

"Get out," the hunter demanded, his voice white-hot with rage. "Get _out_."

Crowley ignored him. "In the end, it doesn't matter what trollop you were screwing. You could be _in flagrante_ with Queen Elizabeth, and it wouldn't change things. It appears that you've forgotten something important."

"Forgotten what?" snapped Dean as the woman beside him edged slightly closer to the other side of the bed and her duffel bag.

"The gravity of your current situation. _Agropelters_ , I ask you?" The demon's voice grew from a pleasant drawl to a shout. "Do you think this is a _joke_?" he hissed. "I am not laughing." Crowley crooked his fingers into a semi-circle midair and then tightened his grasp.

Faith collapsed facedown onto the floral-patterned comforter. Her fingers spasmed against her throat as she gasped for air.

"Let her go, Crowley," insisted the hunter in a low growl. He pulled her back against the pillows by her shoulders, and her panicked brown eyes met his. Dean glared at the self-styled King of Hell. "You got a problem, you deal with me. Leave her out of this."

"Too late for that. I wonder . . ." said Crowley speculatively. "I'm quite fond of this body," he gestured to his current meat-suit. "But to be in a Slayer . . ." His eyes flamed blood-red a second time. "Blocked."

The demon's gaze flicked to the spiky tattoo on Faith's right shoulder. "Ahh," he exhaled in realization. " _Kakistos_." He looked back to Dean. "You do keep company with the strangest of bedfellows."

Dean grit his teeth. " _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Omnis satani-"_

"Enough." Rolling his eyes, Crowley lifted his second hand and tightened his fingers into a similar semi-circle, choking the air from Dean's windpipe with a burning, squeezing pain. With a long-suffering sigh, he looked from the naked hunter to the Slayer and back again.

"I still find you mildly useful, or else it would be curtains for the both of you," promised the demon. "Bring me something real, something that can actually _speak_ within one week's time, or I'll pay another visit to your girlfriend here. And this time, I won't be so nice." He raised his voice and slowed each word. "Do. You. Understand?"

All the hunter could do was nod his head, and so he bobbed his chin up and down, staring at Crowley with furious hatred in his eyes. If looks could incinerate, the crossroads demon would have been a pile of smoldering ash on the cheap hotel carpet.

"Ciao," smirked Crowley. He snapped his fingers once and vanished.

Taking in a deep, sucking breath, Dean waited five seconds before rolling onto his side to look at Faith. "You okay?" he croaked.

Wild-eyed and shaking, Faith half-slid, half-tumbled off the far side of the bed. "I need a drink," she said at length. Using the end of the bed, she pushed herself up to her feet and began dressing hastily. "Let's get outta here."

Once his chest quit aching, the man followed suit. "I can clean up back at the motel."

The Slayer pulled her cell phone out of her jeans pocket and stared at it in mild horror. Four missed calls from Lily with the same number of voicemails. Becka had sent a half dozen texts. Well, at least they had tried to warn them. So that had been Crowley. "I really hate that guy," she grumbled, massaging half-heartedly at her throat.

"Yeah. Me, too."

After she finished tying her bootlaces, Faith lifted her duffel to her shoulder and then crouched down to retrieve all the fallen bobby pins from beside the table. Her back turned away from him, she thought aloud, "Next time, let's not forget to salt down the threshold and the windows before we hit the sack."

Partway through lacing his belt back through its loops, Dean froze. He could not quite believe what he was hearing. He and Faith had taken a little time off for extracurriculars, and it had nearly gotten both of them killed. "Next time?" he said incredulously.

"Mmhmm." The word came out muffled by a mouthful of bobby pins. Capturing the final one, the Slayer straightened up. A thin row of fine metal gleamed at the edges of her pursed lips. "Next time."

"Faith." He said her name slowly because he needed her to listen. This was important. "Faith, we can't. You heard Crowley. He'll – "

"Easy there, tiger. I didn't say that next time was gonna be right this second. We've already gone four rounds in the last twelve hours. I don't know about you, but I'm gonna need at least half a pizza before we pick this back up again – and there's people that need us, so it's gonna be a lot longer than half a pizza before we do pick this up again. But we will," she said with casual finality as she twisted the front doorknob and yanked open the door. "You coming, cowboy?"

Dean followed her out into the cold winter sunlight, half-chuckling to himself. In spite of Crowley's ultimatum, in spite of his soulless brother, in spite of the never-ending sh-tstorm that was his life, so long as the Slayer was on his side, he couldn't help but laugh.


	112. Alpha Female, pt 1

* * *

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: December 27, 2011 at 9:45 p.m.  
** **Subject: Bad News**

Got a problem.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: December 27, 2011 at 9:55 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Bad News**

Oh?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: December 27, 2011 at 9:58 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Bad News**

Last minute fight against Crowley. We killed the bastard. Burned his bones – that son of a bitch ain't coming back any time soon. But he didn't have Sam's soul – it's still in the damn cage.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: December 27, 2011 at 10:03 p.m.  
** **Subject: WTF?**

What the frak?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: December 27, 2011 at 10:06 p.m.**  
**Subject: RE: WTF?**   


You sure Willow can't do anything?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: December 27, 2011 at 10:20 p.m.  
** **Subject: No Dice**

I gave her a call. She says she's sorry, but she's done all she can.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: December 27, 2011 at 10:24 p.m.  
** **Subject: Worth a Shot**

Thanks for trying. I kinda knew. That would've been too easy. I'll work something out.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: December 27, 2011 at 10:30 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Worth a Shot**

I'm sorry. I'll keep looking.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: December 28, 2011 at 11:45 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Worth a Shot**

Dean . . . ?

Give me a ring?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: December 30, 2011 at 6:27 p.m.  
** **Subject: CALL ME**

Dean?

. . . .

* * *

**January 2nd, 2012, Cleveland, Ohio, 7:32 p.m.**

When the call finally came in, Faith was occupied over her stove, lazily swirling her spatula through a boiling saucepan of macaroni. She tossed the spatula onto the countertop and lifted her phone to her ear.

"Hey," sounded the exhausted greeting.

Simultaneously relieved and irritated, the Slayer released her iron death grip on the cell phone. "God, you scared me," she exhaled before pressing, "Are you okay?"

"I did it." Pride shone through his weariness. "It's all gonna be okay. I got Sam's soul back. Only . . ." His voice faded into silence.

Dread crept its way up from Faith's gut. Retrieving Sam's soul had been impossible. Castiel – Crowley – they had all claimed it to be impossible. Unless . . . "Dean, what did you do?"

The hunter inhaled deeply and explained. He told her of his final, last-ditch attempts to rescue his baby brother. He told her of contacting Dr. Robert, an old friend of his father's, and of asking the elderly doctor to 'put me down, just for a little while." He spoke of meeting with first Tessa and then Death, and of his brief, unsuccessful tenure with Death's ring.

"I couldn't reap them, Faith," he admitted after describing the frail twelve-year-old girl lying in a hospital bed. "Just couldn't do it. How was I supposed to kill people – innocent people, who hadn't done anything to deserve it? I thought I could refuse. Thought I could save them if I didn't reap them."

"But?" Faith had had years of experience reading the hunter's tone. She could tell that there was definitely a big-ass 'but' here.

Dean sighed. "But, in the end, I had to do it. And whenever I tried to avoid doing it, it just caused more chaos and more death. I guess there's no way out. When your number's up, it's up. What's dead should stay dead, and what's supposed to die should die. I lost the bet, you know. Couldn't keep the damn ring on for twenty-four hours. For whatever odd reason, though, Death came through. He fixed Sam."

Now that he had finished his tale, the Slayer could go in for the kill. "Why the hell didn't you tell me about this?" She placed a strainer in her sink and poured the steaming water and pasta into the colander.

"I . . ." The hunter swallowed audibly. "I didn't want to worry you . . . I had Bobby."

"Bobby?" Faith snorted. "Bobby's good, Dean, but he damn sure ain't me." After rinsing her macaroni with cold water and shaking the colander, she returned the pasta to its saucepan and began adding butter, milk, and the packet of slightly radioactive cheese powder.

"Kinda full of yourself, don't you think?" The feeble stab at humor attempted to drag their conversation back into the land of the light-hearted.

Faith conceded. She didn't really need to be pissed at him. Not when he sounded so miserable. "I'm the bloody Slayer, Dean. It's not bragging if it's true. How's Sam?"

"He's okay. Death put up a wall in his head, so he doesn't know or remember too much about Hell. It's probably for the best. And at least he's not RoboSam any more."

"Well, let's hope to God that the wall stays put." Stirring the final lumps out of her mac and cheese, the Slayer added, "Where was Cass in all this?"

"Fighting his war in Heaven."

Vaguely aware of her judgmental tone, Faith snarked, "He ever get tired of that? And what's he fighting for, anyway? Control of the Heavenly Host of Douchebags? How's that actually gonna help people?"

Implied digs at Castiel were a little more than Dean felt up to handling at the moment. "I dunno, Faith. I'm just – Sam's back, you know. He's actually back. And that's kind of all I've been thinking about."

"Okay." The Slayer reached into the top drawer for a soup spoon and then carried the entire saucepan of mac and cheese into the living room. She plopped down on the faded navy couch and started bolting down pasta. "I trust you."

The way she said it prompted Dean's next question. "But you don't trust Cass?"

"Does it matter?" Faith asked rhetorically around a mouthful of macaroni. "You do. And I guess that's good enough for me. I'm glad you've got your Sam back, Frodo."

"Very funny."

"I am, aren't I?"

"Yeah, whatever." Dean was less than impressed. After a long minute of listening to her smack on her dinner, he changed the subject. "Hey, since I've got this all stitched up, you wanna come with us to Vegas next month? It's our annual thing – getting to it a little late this year, though. I got a barful of jelloshots with your name on 'em."

"Thanks, but I'm gonna have to pass." She turned him down with genuine regret. "Angel needs a hand in Magic Town, and to be honest, I kinda miss London. Besides, I think I'd distract from your enjoyment of Vegas."

"You can be very distracting . . ." He tried just once more to convince her.

"Mmhmm." The Slayer gulped down another spoonful of macaroni and then continued, "And as much as I'd love to distract you right now, I have to run as soon as I finish this mac and cheese – we got a few new Slayerettes who don't know a right cross from an uppercut."

Dean had been wondering what exactly was causing the horrendous smacking. "You in charge of fixing that?"

"They're in my town, they're my responsibility. After all, someone's got to keep these girls alive."

"And who better than you?"

Faith chuckled throatily. "Who indeed?"

* * *

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 15, 2012 at 2:15 p.m.  
** **Subject: Tourist Time**

Hey. Now that Sam's back to being Sam, you two should come see me in London. I can show him the sights, he can geek out over the history, and then you and I can do a pubcrawl. It'd be fun – did I tell you my fridge has lemons?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 15, 2012 at 11:29 pm.  
** **Subject: RE: Tourist Time**

Bored with Angel already?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 16, 2012 at 6:30 a.m.  
** **Subject: Too Dry Over Here**

He only likes to drink when he's depressed – and he's actually not depressed at the moment, so he hasn't been drinking with me.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 16, 2012 at 9:06 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Too Dry Over Here**

How's Fred?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 16, 2012 at 1:57 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Too Dry Over Here**

Good, but a total lightweight. And I've started to feel guilty about drinking her under the table.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 16, 2012 at 7:47 p.m.  
** **Subject: Maybe?**

I'll talk to Sam. No promises, though. And just because I can stand planes doesn't mean I like them.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 16, 2012 at 9:15 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Maybe?**

I'll make it worth your while.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 16, 2012 at 10:00 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Maybe?**

That's not my hang up.

The angel situation is kinda exploding. Cass's going to-to-toe against Raphael, and there's monsters crawling out of every hole they can find, all across the country. I've got Beck and Lil coordinating hunts in the Great Lakes region for me. Just not looking like it's a good time for a vacation.

Some day, though. I promise.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: February 17, 2012 at 3:13 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: RE: Maybe?**

I'll hold you to that.

. . . .

* * *

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 4, 2012 at 2:46 p.m.  
** **Subject: Sh-tty Natural**

Balthazar threw me and Sam into an alternate universe. Our lives were some damn fool TV show called 'Superatural,' we all wore makeup, and the Polish guy who played Sam had gotten himself married to the actress who played Ruby. Oh, and they had an alpaca.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: March 4, 2012 at 5:08 p.m.  
** **Subject: Dude**

The frak you doing over there?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 4, 2012 at 5:25 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Dude**

I'm not sure which was worse – Ruby or the alpaca.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: March 4, 2012 at 5:37 p.m.  
** **Subject: That One's Easy**

My vote goes to Ruby. I've met alpacas. They're a lot less bitchy.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 4, 2012 at 6:02 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: That One's Easy**

Yeah, that's what I was thinking, too. I looked you up, by the way. While I was trying to sleep on actor-Sam's plushy couch. Turns out they made a TV show about your crew back in Sunnydale.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: March 4, 2012 at 6:14 p.m.  
** **Subject: Nope Nope Nope**

Oh no.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 4, 2012 at 6:29 p.m.  
** **Subject: Guess**

Oh yeah. Guess the title?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: March 4, 2012 at 6:43 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Guess**

Slayers of the Vampyrs?

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 4, 2012 at 6:47 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Guess**

Close, but no cigar. Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: March 4, 2012 at 7:11 p.m.  
** **Subject: Of Course**

Oh, G-d. It's always Buffy, isn't it?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 4, 2012 at 7:18 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Of Course**

Yeah. For what it's worth, you were still hotter than Buffy. Her actress was more famous, though.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: March 4, 2012 at 7:32 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Of Course**

Ha. Okay. I'm pretty sure at least the first part of that was a lie. Anyway, Sam still behind the great wall of sanity?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 4, 2012 at 7:50 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: RE: Of Course**

So far, so good. I've got my fingers crossed that he stays that way.

. . . .

* * *

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: May 8, 2012 at 10:15 p.m.  
** **Subject: Two Words**

I got two words for you: Time. Travel.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: May 8, 2012 at 10:52 p.m.  
** **Subject: Seriously?**

Again?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: May 8, 2012 at 11:09 p.m.  
** **Subject: Posse Lover**

Wild West. We were looking for Samuel Colt. Sam and I had a posse. I was a posse magnet.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: May 8, 2012 at 11:34 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Posse Lover**

How long did it take you to come up with that one?

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: May 8, 2012 at 11:41 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Posse Lover**

Fifteen seconds.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: May 9, 2012 at 12:18 a.m.  
** **Subject: Not Bad**

Coulda been worse.. What'd you get from Sam Colt?

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: May 9, 2012 at 5:13 a.m.  
** **Subject: Phoenix Ash**

The monsters have some big mother-of-all creature that they call Eve. According to the lore at Samuel's old place, phoenix ash is the only thing that can kill her.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: May 9, 2012 at 5:20 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Phoenix Ash**

Phoenixes exist? I thought they were mostly a legend, like unicorns.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: May 9, 2012 at 8:45 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Phoenix Ash**

I ever tell you that Sam thought unicorns were real until he was twenty-four?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: May 9, 2012 at 9:34 a.m.  
** **Subject: Swear to God**

Your little brother . . .

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: May 9, 2012 at 9:51 a.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Swear to God**

Yeah. He believed in the Tooth Fairy for the longest time, too. You still in the UK?

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: May 9, 2012 at 10:07 a.m.  
** **Subject: Yep**

Slayers here need a settling hand.

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: May 9, 2012 at 3:39 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: Yep**

You settling girls down? How the tables have turned.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: May 9, 2012 at 4:00 p.m.  
** **Subject: RE: RE: Yep**

I know, I know – I'm getting old. Don't remind me.

. . . .

**From: ZepHead_79**  
**To: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: May 9, 2012 at 4:28 p.m.  
** **Subject: Not That Old**

You can still give those teenagers what for.

. . . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**To: ZepHead_79**  
**Date: May 9, 2012 at 4:43 p.m.  
** **Subject: I Guess**

Yeah . . . I guess there is that.

. . . .

* * *

**June 1st, 2012, San Francisco, California, 11:37 a.m.**

"Welcome to San Francisco International Airport. Please remain seated and with all carry-on items stowed until the seatbelt sign is off. Don't forget to collect your belongings from the overhead bins as you exit the plane." The cool female voice rang out over the speakers as British Air Flight 598 taxied slowly to the gate.

Fidgeting in her seat, Faith twisted her fingers in the ends of her kelly green scarf. It had been a gift from Fred back around St. Patrick's day, and given the constantly cool weather of San Francisco, she had ultimately decided to bring it. The Slayer waited impatiently in the emergency exit row until the people ahead of her had all grabbed their things and left. Then she rose to her feet, careful not to bang her head against the low ceiling of the plane, and stepped into the aisle.

After swinging her red duffel down and onto her shoulder, the Slayer followed the slow-moving stream of passengers in front of her until she reached the jetbridge. Finally, there was space to squeeze past the senior citizens and families with small children. Free to move at her own pace, she hurried through the airport, hoping that the arsenal in her checked luggage would survive customs.

When Buffy called her two days prior, she hadn't been too specific over the phone. Just mentioned something along the lines of werewolves, nightmare, help? In the interest of continuing to preserve positive relations, Faith had said yes. And in the interest of ganking the werewolf nightmare before it ganked her, Faith had packed for a wide variety of nasty fanged things.

As she headed towards the baggage claim, the Slayer gradually approached the group of suited limo-drivers that could be found at every airport, waiting with signed name cards for those with more money than sense. Out of habit, she scanned the signs. Rottingham, Yamaguchi, the Hart Fund . . . But it was the last driver, a tall man in a dark suit and oversized sunglasses who caught her attention. His placard bore a disturbingly familiar name: Faith Lehane.

Oh, shit. Adrenaline shot through the Slayer's body in half an instant, and she slowed her steps, allowing other travelers to pass her. Someone had been sent for her. Definitely not Buffy or the Watcher's Council. Not in that suit. Suits meant bad things. And which particular bad thing – demons or angels or lawyers or whatever else – Faith had no desire to find out.

She glanced overhead and turned to the left, following a sign for the bathroom. Faith darted into the first women's restroom that she saw and walked quickly past a line of sinks and toilets until she came to the bathroom's second exit, further away from the line of drivers. Her duffel strap tense against her shoulder, the Slayer returned to the baggage area. She dodged around a carrel swarmed by people and ducked out a side door near the parking shuttles.

Faith moved purposefully down the sidewalk towards the cab line. Ignoring the queue of already-waiting people, she went straight to the cab that was fourth from the front. Despite protests, she slipped into the rear seat of the car. She passed a wad of cash up to the driver. "I'll pay you fifty bucks extra if you skip the line."

The driver, a sandy-haired man in his early fifties, did not require further persuasion. He shifted into drive, and the taxi peeled away from the curb. Faith gave him an address that was half a mile from Buffy's place, and then she leaned back against the fake leather upholstery and exhaled.

Still, she could feel the panic swirling inside. She needed fresh air. Needed it fast. Her hand drifted over to the lever that would roll her window down. Faith pressed on the button, but nothing happened. She looked up to the front, attempting to catch the driver's gaze in the rearview mirror. The man's eyes remained fixed on the road.

Surreptitiously, Faith reached for the door handle. Also locked. Too late, she glanced to the line where the window met the door in order to pull up the knob and unlock the door. Panic surged higher in the Slayer's stomach. The knob had been broken off.

"Hey, you mind pulling over?" She kept her voice casual while her mind spun through escape strategies. "I gotta take a piss. I'll pay you to wait."

No response. The driver only began to accelerate. Faith tried the door again, this time shoving against it with her shoulder. When that proved useless, she smashed her elbow against the window glass to break it. The glass did not so much as crack.

"Who the hell are you?" Faith demanded furiously.

At last, the driver met her gaze with a smirking, black-eyed stare. He smiled and pressed a button on the car console. A glass divider rose between the front and back seat, sealing Faith in as a white gas poured out of the air conditioning vent on the ceiling of the car.

She snapped her mouth closed and refused to inhale. Unbuckling her seatbelt, Faith threw herself forwards against the glass and then sideways against the door. Nothing budged. No, no, no. This was not how it went. This was not how it ended. But she was trapped, like an animal in a cage. And eventually even Slayers had to breathe.

Faith slumped against the upholstery as the white gas filled her lungs. She could feel exhaustion overtaking her. Her limbs felt like lead, and her mind grew thick and cloudy. Right before the darkness claimed her, the demon spoke for the first and only time.

"Crowley sends his regards."


	113. Alpha Female, pt 2

* * *

**June 2nd, 2012, Rock Springs, Wyoming, 6:30 a.m.**

"Mom. Mom! I think she's starting to wake up."

As a child's voice pierced her ears, the Slayer's sleep-muzzled brain began filtering bits and pieces into one cohesive whole. She slowly lifted her head off of her shoulder, wincing at the monstrous crick in her neck. Everything ached from her head to her feet, but the neck was the worst. _Oh, God._

She blinked, and the room in front of her came into focus. Someone – demons – _Crowley_ – had tied her in a sitting position with her back flush against a metal pillar. Her clothes were relatively in order – thank God for small favors – and she could faintly see her red duffel thrown beneath a table on the other side of the room.

Looking left, right, and then upwards, she added more details to her mental picture. The metal column stood in the middle of a basement factory room, which was two stories in height. Golden orange light shone through three tiny windows near the ceiling. _Sunrise_ , the Slayer surmised, judging by the caliber of the light and how out of it she felt. Faith braced her boots against the concrete floor and shifted her weight slightly from side to side to relieve the pins and needles shooting through her rear end.

That same prepubescent male voice was hissing again, "Faith. Faith!"

Faith intended to say, "What?" but it came out more like "Mnurghhhfff?"

"Ben, give her a second."

_I know her. That's . . ._ Her mind finally supplied a name. _That's Lisa. Which must make the kid Ben. Lisa. Ben. Crowley. SHIT._ Faith stared down at the ropes wrapping their way around her wrists and torso. Ropes were easy. Ropes she could break. The Slayer gave an experimental twist, flexing her elbows to bring her wrists apart.

To her surprise, nothing happened. The ropes cut into her skin, and Faith winced at the pain. _What the . . .?_ Her heart began to accelerate. This was not right. Rope burns never hurt her. Something was dreadfully, horribly wrong.

A shadow blocked out her light. "The Tento di Cruciamentum, they called it. A time-honored ancient rite of passage for Slayers once they reached the age of eighteen."

The Slayer's stomach plummeted as she finally noticed the raised red puncture wound in the hollow of her left elbow. She struggled to remember how Wesley had described the Cruciamentum concoction: muscle relaxants, adrenaline suppressants – had there been anything else? After a long pause, she looked up into the coarse, smug face of her captor. "Crowley."

"Should be a familiar sensation - or it would if you'd ever been a _proper_ Slayer." The demon smirked at Faith's subtle wince. "According to those bottom-feeder Watchers who gave me their special little formula, you became a murderer before they could administer the test. Pity. If they had hurried, Allan Finch might still be alive."

Faith refused to be side-tracked by the mention of man she had killed. Not when there were more important things to discuss. "What am I, blackmail?"

Crowley jerked his head towards the pillar. "They're blackmail. You're more . . . insurance."

"Insurance?" The Slayer raised her eyebrows.

"I told them to stay away if they wanted the woman and the boy to live, but frankly we both know it was only a matter of time before the Winchesters summoned you to help them find Dean's little pets."

"You son of a bi-" came Lisa's furious growl from the other side of the column.

" _Quiet_ ," barked Crowley. His eyes narrowed, and his smug face became even uglier. The demon turned back to the Slayer, and the anger dissipated from his features, now unctuous once more. "This way, you won't be able to help them. So difficult to fire a gun without a trigger."

Faith could take a hint from his reaction to Lisa. Cussing Crowley out would only cut things short, and she needed all the information she could get. Biting her tongue, the Slayer postponed the violent tirade of profanity blossoming at the back of her throat. Instead, she asked bluntly, "Does Dean know I'm here?"

The demon almost laughed. "Do I _look_ stupid to you? Don't answer that – you sleep with a Winchester. Obviously, your judgment is impaired. I want to deprive the Winchesters of resources, not light a fire under their arses. This," he twirled his index finger around in a quick circle, "is merely what you might call a prophylactic. You'll spend a day or two here as my guest, and then back to your bow-legged boyfriend you'll all go."

Smirking, Crowley crouched down over the Slayer. Faith drew back against the pillar as far as she could. "Ah ah ahh," said the demon.

He slipped a hand into the pocket of his black coat and withdrew a strip of blue rubber and a capped syringe full of clear liquid. While Faith stared up at him with furious hatred, he wrapped the tourniquet around her right arm. The Slayer grit her teeth as Crowley jammed the needle into her forearm and emptied the syringe. "Sweet dreams."

* * *

**June 2nd, 2012, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 7:30 a.m.**

Standing in Bobby's kitchen, Dean eyed his ringing cell phone warily and then lifted it off the table. "Hello?" he said in a gruff voice.

"Hi, Dean. It's Buffy." The voice on the other end of the line sounded fatigued. "I've, um, I've got a situation."

The hunter's gut cramped uncomfortably. Exhausted to the bone, he crossed the room for a glass of water. He was out of demons, but that was easily solved. Just keep summoning them until one of the dumbass red-shirts had some actual dirt on Crowley and where he was keeping Ben and Lisa. "Kinda in the middle of something right now."

"It's important," stressed the Slayer.

"Okay." Dean swallowed his water in one long guzzle, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Tell me."

"Faith was on a flight headed to San Francisco yesterday. Her plane landed at noon, and she was supposed to take a taxi to my apartment. She never came. Security cameras show her getting into a cab – Spike found it burned out ten miles down the highway earlier this morning. We don't know where she is. Her phone's off, and the GPS tracking on it won't work." Buffy staggered to a halt as she realized the man had not said anything. "Dean? You still with me?"

Her words sank in, and Dean's brain, already buzzing with caffeine and ethanol, slotted the information into place. "Crowley. G-ddamn it all to frakking hell. When I find him, I am going to rip him into so many pieces that –"

"Dean," interrupted Buffy firmly.

Reluctantly accepting that he would have to explain himself, the hunter said, "There's this crossroads demon by the name of Crowley – since we slammed Lucifer's ass back into the cage, he's started calling himself the King of Hell. He's been taking interest in grabbing people close to me lately. I'd bet he's got her."

"How can we help?"

Had he been less tired, Dean might have felt more surprised. "I don't know. I'll – we'll keep working it on our end. Maybe ask your pal Willow if she knows any spells that might be helpful? Sam'll keep you updated on what we find here."

"You got it," agreed Buffy. "Anything else you think of, let us know?"

"Sure." The hunter hung up the phone and allowed it to drop onto the counter. He stared at his hands. Was it just him, or were his fingers starting to vibrate? Dean shook his head to clear it. "Cass!" he bellowed, still gazing at his shaking hands. "Get your feathered ass down here."

Dean gave the angel five seconds to appear. Then, without turning away from the counter, he demanded, "Where is she?"

"I told you," sounded the deep, gravelly voice from behind him. "I do not know where Lisa is. I am trying to –"

Eyes ablaze, the hunter whirled on his boot heels. "Not Lisa," he snapped as he abandoned all attempts at keeping his tone level. " _Faith_. Where is she?"

Castiel frowned in confusion. "I don't understand."

"She's missing," the man spat. "Your butt buddy Crowley must've gotten her, too."

The angel's eyebrows narrowed still further. "I don't know – "

"He's got her, dammit!" Dean reached for his water glass and threw it onto the tile floor, where it smashed into a half-hundred pieces. He would have to buy Bobby another one, but right now it didn't matter. Glass crunched beneath his foot as he took one menacing step towards Castiel. "You . . ."

Voice trembling with rage, he cut himself off and then tried again. "Cass, you call yourself my friend. You say you've always had my back. Now that I won't go along with your little plan, you let Crowley take Faith?"

After quick inhale, he snarled, "You wanna talk about _friends?_ _She's_ my friend. She is my _best_ friend. I'd pick her over you any day – and especially right now, when you've got your head so far up your self-righteous ass that you can almost see daylight."

"How would that –"

"You find them," the hunter ordered. "Lisa, Ben, Faith. You find all of them, and you bring them back to me _now_ , or you and me? We're done. I don't care how many limbs you say you've gone out on for me. You bring all three of them back, or we're done."

"Dean – "

But Dean was lightyears beyond listening to anyone, let alone the angel who kept screwing him over. "Put a plug in it, Cass. You get the hell out. And you find them."

* * *

**June 10th, 2012, Rock Springs, Wyoming, 10:45 a.m.**

Faith woke to an overwhelming wave of nausea that completely swamped her. Ducking her head towards the side of the column without an occupant, she vomited three times in quick succession until there was nothing left to throw up but acid.

"Eugh." To her right, Ben sounded nearly sick himself.

The Slayer spit once to clear the last of the bile from her mouth. "You guys okay?" she asked hoarsely, tilting her head back against the column and waiting for the world to stop spinning. Faith risked another quick glance around the room. She counted three demons. One standing guard at the top of the cast-iron stairway rising to the top of the room, another at the base of the stairs, and a third who was rifling through her red duffel.

"They killed Matt," said Ben in a small, frightened voice.

"Your mom's boyfriend?  The doctor?" Faith closed her eyes to suppress her remaining nausea, with little success. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thanks," murmured Lisa from the opposite side of the column. "Are . . . are you okay, Faith? What's – what's that drug he's giving you?"

"Kryptonite." The Slayer twisted her head to the left and vomited again. Wiping her mouth against her shoulder, she continued, "Or horse-quality Rohypnol. Kinda hard to tell. I'll be fine," she lied unconvincingly.

"That British man – Crowley – what he said earlier, about you and Dean . . . was he telling the truth?"

Faith coughed. "Did we sleep together, you mean?" She exhaled heavily. "Yeah. About six months ago."

"I'm . . ." Lisa hesitated. "I'm glad," she said at last. "He deserves something good."

"That's - ."

"Hey!" The demon searching through Faith's duffel bag turned to glare at them.  His upper lip curled. "No talking." He stomped over towards the prisoners and pulled a tube of shimmering liquid out of his back pocket.

Faith recognized that particular pearlescent glow. "Orpheus," she mumbled. "No . . . no."

Her protests were ignored. The henchdemon picked up the blue tourniquet. This time, he tied it around her left arm. He screwed a dirty needle onto the tube and shoved it into the Slayer.

"Please," the woman whimpered as he depressed the plunger. "No."

"This should shut her up," laughed the demon. He slapped her across the face with a heavy palm, knocking the Slayer to the side as far as her bonds would allow.

As her vision started going blurry again, Faith was overcome by lightheadedness. She sagged against the pillar. Only the ropes, steel, and concrete were holding her in a semi-upright position. Her breathing slowed as the Orpheus dragged her down beneath its powerful tide.

_No!_ She had energy for one final fierce thought, and then everything went black.

* * *

**Ju** **ne 2nd, 2012, San Francisco, California, 12:01 p.m.**

Buffy answered her phone on the third ring. She did not recognize the caller ID, but she had her fingers crossed, hoping against hope that it would be either Faith or Sam. "Hello?"

"Dean's got an address."

Sam, then. The Slayer exhaled in disappointment. "He found them?"

The hunter continued quickly, "We're heading in. I just texted you our coordinates."

"Okay. I've got Willow here. She only has enough power to send me right now, but I'll be there, fast as I can."

"You might want to make it faster," said Sam, and he hung up.

Rising from her couch, the blonde stuck her head into the kitchen, where her best friend was finishing setting up for a teleportation spell. The kitchen table was covered in a heavy black tablecloth littered with white chalk symbols. Red and blue candles burned in the four cardinal directions. As Buffy entered the room, Willow looked up from her preparations, her tie-dyed scarf brushing against one of the candles and nearly catching on fire.

"You hear all that?" asked Buffy.

"Most of it." Willow frowned sympathetically. "Almost done here. Do you – do you think she's okay?"

"I dunno. Those hunter friends of hers are pretty uptight. Like, scary uptight . . . Scarf, Will."

The witch blinked in confusion. "Huh? Oh!" She swept the fringed tassels of her scarf out of the red candle and tapped the glowing ends against the black tablecloth. "Thanks, Buff. Uptight or not, they're probably the best bet we have of finding Faith"

Buffy sighed. "Yeah. You ready?"

Willow opened a red velvet-lined casket to reveal a glittering topaz. Approximately the size of a quarter, the pale blue gemstone pulsated with energy. Placing the topaz in the center of the table, the witch reached across for her best friend's hands. She then tilted her chin up to the ceiling and softly recited an incantation to Hekate.

Although she had thought herself prepared, Buffy was not quite ready for the horrible twisting that always accompanied Willow's teleportation spells. The twisting began somewhere in the region of her left knee and wrenched its way throughout her body until it seemed like her very bones were turning in on themselves. Just before she hit her breaking point, she heard a whistling of wind and felt the rush of air that signaled the spell was working.

* * *

Buffy appeared outside a grungy, abandoned warehouse in the cloudy, overcast middle of nowhere. She forced down the residual nausea from her teleportation and started forwards, unsheathing the knife at her hip. Its leaf-shaped blade was a perfect match to the one she had given Faith shortly before her birthday. The blonde Slayer had gotten both blades tempered in holy water and consecrated by an Orthodox priest, and while she was waiting for Willow to get set up, she had doused hers thoroughly in holy water again. It might not kill demons, but it should hurt enough to incapacitate them.

Crossing the parking lot, her boots crunched against the gravel. Buffy ignored it. She made a fast, silent patrol of the building's perimeter. Halfway around the warehouse, she found the body of a bald drifter. He lay still near the loading dock railing, a gaping wound in his chest. The door to the loading dock had been wrenched open. _Winchesters_.

She spared the dead man a final glance before leaping up onto the dock and slipping into the darkness of the warehouse. Moving speedily and silently through the building, Buffy followed a trail of bloody bootprints that led her from one dead demon host to the next. At every new find, the Slayer scrunched her nose in distaste. Hunters. Since her first encounter with them in the woods outside Sunnydale, she had associated the profession with needlessly brutal violence. Hunting was – in a word – messy.

As she stepped past her fourth corpse into an even dimmer hallway, she heard muffled shouting emanating from the room ahead of her. Buffy rocked back on her heels momentarily, then continued on. The closer she got, the more distinct the shouting became.

"Dean!" bellowed a hoarse male voice from behind a steel door on the left side of the room. The person behind the door banged their fists on the metal. "Dean!"

Buffy pressed her mouth to the crack on the edge of the door. "Hang on, Sam." Darting away from the door, the Slayer cast her eyes around the cratered floor in search of something she could use. Aha! She grabbed an abandoned iron bar, eighteen inches long and three in diameter, and used it to smash the lock. Buffy then planted her hand on the door handle and jerked it open.

A dusty man emerged, brushing the mud away from his knees and elbows. His hands were scraped raw from battering them against the door to his cage. Sam nodded his thanks.

"Where's Dean?" they both whispered at the same time.

The response was equally in unison. "I don't know."

By silent agreement, they continued moving through the nearly empty warehouse. Dean had left ample breadcrumbs in the form of bodies, and they followed his trail to another closed door. The handle here had been shot off, and Buffy nudged the door open with her shoulder.

She stumbled through the door onto a narrow landing at the top of a two-story room. Buffy skittered to a halt at the edge of the landing as Sam froze in the doorway. The landing railing had been broken away, and she could see fragments of it on the concrete floor below, lying next to yet another body.

In three seconds, the Slayer took in the room. Two dead demons, including the one who had apparently taken a tumble off the landing. Three people were tied to a steel pillar in the center of the room, and Dean was crouched beside a dark-haired woman and a teenage boy, cutting them free with a sharp-edged knife.

The hunter looked up as Buffy and his brother arrived. "Help her," he said in a strained voice, nodding to the other side of the pillar, where a too-still, too-silent Faith lay slumped over, not moving.

Buffy did not require further encouragement. Without hesitation, she jumped down the fifteen feet to the concrete floor below. Landing easily on the balls of her feet, she took a few half-running steps towards the other Slayer. Behind her, she was vaguely aware of Sam racing down the stairs and Dean folding the boy and woman into his arms.

Dropping to a knee, the Slayer slit the ropes holding Faith to the pillar. Her bonds gone, the limp woman slid a few more inches down the steel column. Buffy's fingers found their way to the pulse point at the base of the brunette's neck. The blood rushing through her carotid was weak, thready, but still there. _Thank God_ , thought Buffy in relief.

Air filling her lungs a little more easily now, Buffy rocked back onto her heels. As she did so, she caught sight of a strip of blue rubber on the floor. The Slayer picked it up to examine it more carefully and then tossed it aside. Tourniquet. She grabbed each of Faith's arms in turn and traced the hollows of her elbows with a single finger until she found the tiny bruises and already fading red marks that she was looking for.

"Any idea what they might have shot her up with?" she asked the room at large as she sawed her way through the ropes still binding the other woman's wrists.

The boy spoke for the first time. "She said something about kryptonite." His voice wobbled. "Kryptonite and, uh, a crucifixion. And something . . . something called Orpheus?"

Kryptonite, crucifixion. Kryptonite, crucifixion. That had to mean something. Buffy thought furiously, and then it came to her. "Did she say Cruciamentum?"

"Holy sh-t," breathed Sam. Buffy bit back a smile. At least someone had been doing their Slayer reading.

"She didn't say 'Cruciamentum,'" said the boy. "But the British man did. The one she called Crowley."

" _Goddammit_ ," swore Dean. "That and Orpheus? No wonder she didn't bust herself loose." He glanced away from the woman and her son just long enough to give the unconscious Slayer one stricken look. "How is she?"

Buffy found the pulse again and allowed it to reassure her. "Stable. She should be okay until we can get her to a hospital, but we'd better hurry. Orpheus alone is nasty juju. Orpheus plus whatever else they poured into her . . ."

"I know." The hunter helped the other two captives to their feet. "Last time she took that, she almost died."

"Which is why I said we should hurry." Buffy looked from one Winchester brother to the next and made her decision. "Sam, I'm going to need a hand here."

Nodding in agreement, the younger Winchester bent down and lifted the unconscious Slayer into his arms. He slowly started walking towards the stairs. As she followed him, Buffy recognized the faded Cardinals duffel bag sitting on top of the work table on the other side of the room. She darted across the concrete to claim it, and then followed Sam up the steps. This way, there would be a smidgen of good news when Faith woke up – if she woke up.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dean stepping away from Lisa and Ben to snatch his own duffel bag. "Right behind you," the hunter called as his brother reached the top of the stairs.

Sam turned sideways to carry Faith back through the door, Buffy at his heels. The Slayer had just cleared the threshold when the door slammed closed behind them with a sharp crash that echoed throughout the empty warehouse.

"Dean!" hollered Sam. His grip on the Slayer loosened instinctively, and he almost dropped her.

Buffy did not waste time with words. She backed up ten steps and sprinted full-tilt at the door, ramming into it at top Slayer speed. The steel did not budge. Hammering against it with her fists, she turned a worried face to Sam. "Is there another way in?"

The hunter's skin had gone ghost white beneath his dark brown hair, and he shook his head. "This was the only door," he whispered.

"Great." The Slayer charged the door a second time, but again nothing happened.

Before she could give it a third try, a great bruiser of a man rounded the corner of the hallway and raced at them. He had a gun in his hand, and his eyes were coal-black.

"Oh, now this is _really_  great," Buffy repeated with even less enthusiasm. She sprinted forwards and kicked the revolver out of the demon's hand. Without giving him time to recover, she brought her holy-water tempered blade up to his throat and thrust the blade away from her, driving it through skin and muscle and finally through bone. The demon's severed head dropped to the dirty floor, and the Slayer turned back to Sam, wiping her bloody knife on the outside of her thigh.

Sam's eyes were almost as wide as saucers. "You . . . You shouldn't be able to do that. Not with something that small."

Buffy snorted. "Slayer, Sam. Remember?" She paused and looked over her shoulder. Something else was coming. She could feel it. "Whatever you do, don't put her down. Whatever trouble's on its way to us, I can handle it. You keep Faith safe. You do not put her down. You hear me?" she added for emphasis as two mores demons burst out of another door further down the hallway.

"I hear you."

By the time the dust cleared three minutes later, the Slayer was standing in a circle of five headless bodies, her clothes and hands liberally drenched in the spray of arterial blood. Hunting was messy, but so could be Slaying, she reflected grimly as she walked back to the door. Buffy gave the door a single, angry kick.

To her surprise, the steel door creaked open. She shoved her head through the doorway to see Dean mounting the stairs, Lisa in his arms. The dark-haired woman was bleeding from the abdomen. Behind him, Ben struggled beneath the weight of the man's heavily stocked duffel bag, a sawed-off shotgun clutched in his hands.

Two pairs of green eyes met, and the hunter drew in a ragged breath. He looked like death warmed over. "We gotta go," he grunted as he pushed past Buffy into the hallway.

Sam grew even paler when he saw the burden his brother carried. "Dean, what . . .?"

"Demon." Every syllable seemed to be costing him more and more. "She was possessed. I didn't check. My fault. We need a car. Buffy – go."

"I – I don't drive," the Slayer spluttered.

"It's okay. I got this. Here." Sam shifted Faith up onto his shoulder in a firemen's carry. "We aren't that far from the exit. I'll get the car. You stay and protect them." Clutching the Slayer tight against him, he took off running towards the way out.

Buffy watched them go with a pang of concern. "Here," she said to Ben. "Why don't you give me that shotgun?"

Ben glanced fearfully at Dean for permission.

"Go ahead," grumbled the man, and then his attention returned to the bleeding woman in his arms. "Come on, honey," he said in a much gentler voice. "Stay with me, Lise. That's all you gotta do, honey. Just stay with me."

* * *

When they reached the exit a few minutes later, Sam was just pulling up in a mud-splattered white four-door pick-up. He jumped out from behind the wheel to open the back passenger door for Dean. The two men carefully shifted Lisa into the backseat, and Dean scrambled in after her.

Scanning the front and backseat for the other Slayer and coming up empty, Buffy turned to Sam. "Faith?"

"In the back." He jerked his head towards the covered bed of the pick-up truck.

"Thanks." Buffy sprinted around to the tailgate and lowered it to find Faith lying stretched out. She climbed up to join her, and Sam closed the tailgate after her.

The engine growled as Sam shifted back into drive. Realizing that this was going to be a bumpy ride, Buffy pulled Faith's head into her lap. She brushed tendrils of sweat-soaked hair away from the other woman's heated forehead. With her free hand, the blonde slid open the glass window that connected the backseat with the bed of the pick-up.

A stream of low whispering and bargaining drifted back to her, barely audible over the squeal of the truck's tires on gravel. "It's gonna be okay, honey," promised Dean, at turns both pleading and reassuring. "Just hang on. Just stay with me. Ben, your mom's gonna be okay." He pitched his voice louder, so that it carried better into the back. "Buffy, how's Faith doing?"

She raised her voice so he could hear. "No wounds, same as before. Her skin's on fire, though. I wish I knew how much Orpheus they gave her."

Dean continued almost as if she had not spoken. "Just stay with me, Lise," he begged the dying woman in his arms. "You're going to be okay, honey. I promise. Just stay with me. Sam, drive _faster_."


	114. Alpha Female, pt 3

* * *

**June 2nd, 2012, Oakview Hospital, Rock Springs, Wyoming, 7:30 p.m.**

Buffy strode into the dark ICU bay and paused to flip the switch on the wall. Harsh white light bathed the room from the fluorescent panels on the ceiling. Wincing at the sudden change, the Slayer walked over to the far side of the heavy hospital bed and folded herself into the plastic chair stationed there. She crossed her knees, resuming her vigil beside the unconscious patient.

"You should really stop doing this,"she said after a moment. Her eyes traced the IV line from its half-empty bag of clear fluid to where it was embedded on the back of the patient's left hand. "Getting a little tired of seeing you in the hospital." With a sigh, Buffy leaned forward to tuck a wayward lock of hair behind Faith's ears.

"I know it's not your fault," the Slayer continued, carding her curled fingers through the other woman's hair to straighten it out on the pillow.

Someone cleared their throat in the doorway. Buffy yanked her hand back as if she had been burned and scrambled to her feet. Embarrassed at having been caught in an unguarded moment, the Slayer looked up into the face of Sam Winchester. He was watching her with a faint, tired smile stretching across his face. Of all of them, he looked the least like he had been dragged through hell.

"Hey." Sam gestured with one of the two insulated cups clasped in his hands. "I brought you some coffee."

The Slayer edged her way back around the hospital bed. "Thanks," she said awkwardly, glancing down as their hands brushed on the coffee cup.

"How's she doing?"

Buffy inhaled and then let the breath out through her teeth. Frowning pensively, she regarded Faith. "The doctors are concerned that her tox screen results are off the charts. They've been talking dialysis – something about putting a giant IV in her neck to exchange all of her blood. But before they try that, they want to give her some more fluids and some diuretics to see if she can clear things out, I guess. How's . . . How's your brother?"

Sam ran a hand over his face. "Not good," he admitted. The hunter pursed his lips and took a quick drink of coffee. "He, uh, he's been sitting by Lisa from the moment she got out of surgery. Ben's there, too. I don't think either of them's said a word in the last hour and a half."

"Makes sense that he'd be a little preoccupied." Buffy thought back on the phone calls she had just finished. Willow, at least, had been reasonable. Lily and Becka, on the other hand, had been going full-throttle into an unbridled panic. "Has Dean stepped in here? If he did, I must have missed him – I just got back from calling my people."

"No, I don't think so." The hunter shook his head. "He . . . He hasn't really moved since Lisa got back from the O.R. He's not doing so good."

"And are you?" prompted the blonde. "Doing so good, I mean?"

He half-laughed. "Me? Given the circumstances, I'm all right. You?"

The Slayer's gaze flicked from Sam to the woman in the bed. "Five by five," she answered softly. Then, looking up, she crossed her arms over her chest. "I'll go talk to your brother. I need to ask him some questions. Can you stay with Faith?"

Sam nodded in acquiescence. "Yeah. Of course."

"Thanks. And, uh, thanks again for the coffee."

Slipping out through the curtains and the sliding glass door, Buffy wandered down the hallway towards Lisa's room. The Slayer risked a sip from her coffee and instantly pulled a face. Eugh. Harsher and stronger than she would prefer, the drink was practically black. She wondered briefly if this was what the brothers Winchester drank on a regular basis. If so, no surprise that they were so grim all the time.

As she approached the closed blue curtains around Lisa's room, Buffy slowed to a stop, distracted by Dean's low rumble and an even deeper-voiced response.

"I don't care," growled the hunter furiously. "It's too little, too late."

_Isn't that a song?_ Buffy's brain supplied unhelpfully.

"Okay," came the gravel-filled reply. "Well, regardless, I didn't come for you."

"Meaning?" Dean demanded.

There followed a slight pause, and then the stranger resumed speaking, "She's fine now. She'll wake soon. I also visited your friend Faith, a few minutes ago when she was alone. I healed her chronic liver damage and cleared the plaque from her arteries, as well as removing what I believe you humans refer to as _fibroids._ Dean, I said I'm sorry, and I meant it."

"Thank you. I . . . I wish that changed things." The hunter's voice wavered uncharacteristically.

"So do I," said the stranger. "All else aside, I wanted to fix what I could."

Dean cleared his throat. "There is one other thing you could do for me."

"What do you need, Dean?"

"Make them forget," the man said in a tone that burned. "Make Lisa and Ben forget they ever knew me. I don't care how you do it, but take every memory of me out of their heads – out of their lives. You do that, and maybe there's a snowball's chance that I may one day forgive you."

The owner of the second voice hesitated. "I – that will be complicated. But it can be done."

Buffy had heard enough. Pushing herself away from the wall, the Slayer strolled into the hospital room. "But do you ever pause to wonder if it _should_ be done?" she asked brightly as she moved through the curtains.

When she saw Dean's friend, a slightly shorter man in a tan trench coat and a perpetual frown radiating across his eyebrows, the Slayer put two and two together. From everything Faith had ever let slip about the Winchesters and their friends, this could only be one person. She darted quickly between the angel and the bed.

"Castiel?" she beamed with an extra dose of Valley Girl pep. "Hi, I don't think we've met." Her smile widened. "I'm Buffy. Vampire Slayer, former cheerleader, UC-Sunnydale dropout, girl who's saved the world . . . a lot." Still smiling, she added, "Leave that woman _alone_."

Dean glared at her over the angel's shoulders. He took a step forward, his hands tensing into fists. "Stand down, Buffy," he warned. "This needs to happen."

Realizing who her target audience had to be, Buffy addressed the hunter. "No. It's not your call to make. It's hers. If she wakes up and decides that she wants to forget any of this ever happened, that's her decision. But you can't take her memories without her consent. It's _wrong."_

The man grit his teeth. "Cass – "

Castiel started to edge closer, and Buffy thrust out her hands, slamming them flat against the angel's chest to stop him. "No."

He glanced down at her in mild surprise and distaste. "You presume to touch me?"

Buffy smiled again, but this time it did not reach her eyes. "You must not have heard me before. Hi." She gave the angel's chest a light shove. "I'm Buffy." She shoved him again. "Vampire Slayer." Shove. "Died twice." Shove. "Saved the world."

The Slayer paused for breath. Her armpits were sweating liberally through the cotton of her t-shirt, but at least she had managed to push him back a step or two.

"Give it up, Buffy," commanded the hunter. Buffy couldn't tell if he was trying to threaten her or convince her. "You stay out of this. You don't know Lisa, and you don't know me."

"Maybe," the blonde hedged. "But I know Faith." Her green eyes flashed angrily, and she gave the angel another quick shove. "And if Faith were here right now, she'd break your nose. But since she's taking an unintended nap at the moment, you'll just have to deal with me."

Dean finally abandoned his attempts at intimidation, changing strategies. His voice dropped quieter, and he allowed her to see that he was fast approaching his breaking point. "It's my fault that they're hurt," he croaked. "Lisa, Ben, Faith. This will fix –"

She understood his reasoning, but she could not budge. Arms extended to keep Castiel at bay, she said, "That won't fix anything. Taking away their memories won't make them safer. It will just make them oblivious. Knowledge is protection. And even if they don't remember you, it doesn't change the fact that the bad guys remember _them_."

Buffy lowered her tone to meet his. More gently, she continued, "I know you're hurting, Dean. I know you love her. And I know how much that hurts – I know how much it hurts to injure somebody you love." For a half second, she had a blinding glimpse of shoving her sword into Angel's chest and sending him straight into the gaping maw of Acathla, and tears burned at the backs of Buffy's eyes.

Blinking furiously to clear them, she went on, "It cuts you up inside. Cuts you to the bone. I know what that's like. I know how it feels to be afraid that you can't protect who you need to protect, Dean, I _know_. It hurts, and it's hard, and it's scary, and it feels like you're never going to get through this, like you're going to die because it hurts so much."

She stopped, breathed, and carried on, "But you _can_ get through this. And you have to. Because the alternative is even worse."

Silence filled the room while Dean stared at her for a long, terrifying moment. Finally, he mumbled hoarsely, "You can go, Cass. We – I – we'll take it from here."

The angel vanished, the only sign of his departure a deepening of the silence.

"Good," said Buffy when she felt she had gotten herself under control, when the phantom of Angel was no longer hovering in the corner of her eyes. "I'm going to stay here and talk to your friend when she wakes up. You should go see Faith."

"Why?" Dean asked in utter defeat.

The broken question was nearly enough to upend Buffy's struggle against her own emotions. "Because," she fumbled for her reasons. "Because you need to. Because she's in the hospital and you haven't seen her. Here." The Slayer shoved her coffee cup into the hunter's callused hand. His fingers closed around it reflexively.

"Take this. It'll help. Go ask the nurse where you can take a shower, then go see Faith. I'll work on a plan to protect your girlfri – to protect Lisa," she amended hastily.

As the hunter turned towards the door, the blonde added, "It'll be okay, you know. It will be rough, but it'll be okay. And you'll get through it."

Dean glanced back over his shoulder. Eyes red, voice cracking, he said, "How do you know?"

"Because," Buffy admitted in a quiet voice, maintaining eye contact, "I did."

* * *

The Slayer endured a rather awkward half-hour conversation with Lisa before she managed to slip away back to Faith's hospital room. Hands clasped in front of him, Sam was standing guard outside the door. The Slayer skidded to a halt and asked, "Your brother in there?"

"He took off somewhere downstairs. Said he needed more coffee." Sam jerked his head toward the blue curtain. "Faith's still out of it."

"Dean tell you about Castiel?"

The hunter glanced down at her in surprise. "Cass was here?"

"Oh, boy." Buffy chewed on her bottom lip. "I shouldn't have – "

"No," he cut her off. "I think you should. What happened with Cass?"

_Uh oh._ The blonde took a deep breath. She had a vague sensation that there were ill-defined lines here and that she was crossing them. "Well . . ."

* * *

Incessant beeping, stickers on her chest, tape attached to her hand. Faith knew without opening her eyes that she was trapped, once again, in a hospital. She forced open her heavy eyelids to stare up at the generic white popcorned ceiling.

A blonde head poked into her field of vision. _Buffy_. Now that was a shocker.

"Where . . . ?" mumbled the Slayer in a voice strained from disuse.

"Oakview Hospital. Rock Springs, Wyoming."

Wyoming, huh? The last time she had been in Wyoming, she had been quieting down the stampede of buffalo spirits with Spike. And the time before that had been years ago, when Castiel let Alastair go after Dean. Buffalo spirits aside, not exactly Faith's favorite state. "How?"

The older Slayer explained briefly where they had found her and how she and the Winchesters had gotten everyone back to the hospital. Faith digested the news about Lisa's injuries in sullen silence, continuing to watch the ceiling. It was easier to face than Buffy's eyes.

Finally, when the other woman's words had trailed off into silence, Faith cleared her throat. "Thanks for being here when I woke up. How's, uh, how's Dean?"

"I made him go clean up. He's kind of volcano-ey right now." Buffy gave her the quick version of Dean's discussion with Castiel and then finished, "But I didn't let him do it."

"Thank God," the brunette addressed the ceiling.

Buffy shifted her weight in her seat, bringing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. "I told him you'd have kicked his ass."

For the first time, Faith looked at her. "I would have," she said with a half-smile. Then, more seriously, "Hey, B, can I ask you a question?"

"Go for it." Buffy returned the half-smile with a full smile of her own. "I'll be Answer Girl."

"Two questions, really." She was dancing on thin ice, but her body felt too leaden for Faith to care. Still, she started with the easier one first. "One, when can I eat? And two, why did you come?"

Buffy's smile drooped a little at the corners. "Because Dean thought you'd been kidnapped by a demon, Faith. And you needed my help."

Eyes narrowed, Faith watched her carefully. "That it?"

The blonde shrugged. "It's complicated, Faith. You know that. It's –"

"Always been complicated," Faith finished together with her. "I know. For whatever it's worth, I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too," sighed Buffy. Rallying, she added, "But no matter how complicated it's been, you're the only one who gets it. At the end of the day, you're the only other person who knows what it's like – what it's really like – to be the Slayer."

Faith attempted a hollow grin. "Hot chicks with superpowers."

"Hot _lonely_ chicks with superpowers," amended Buffy with emphasis. "It gets kinda deserted up at the top of our world."

"Mmm." The brunette nodded groggily. "We're the alphas."

Buffy cocked her head to one side. "Huh?"

"All these monsters Dean and Sam have been fighting. They all have an alpha – the super-powered granddaddy of the species. You and me, we're like the Slayer alphas. I guess you more than me . . . but I still count?"

"I see Castiel didn't quite clean up the tail ends of the Orpheus. You're still a little out of it." The older Slayer paused, then said, "I guess I see what you mean." A second, longer pause followed. "You do count. And I'm sorry."

"You said that already," muttered Faith with a frown.

The blonde twisted her hands in her lap. "I mean I'm sorry about Sunnydale." The hand-twisting increased. "I'm sorry you woke up alone."

Faith honestly had no response for this. After an awkward moment, she shrugged. "Time heals. Still . . . thanks."

Straightening in her chair, Buffy signaled a subject change. "When they let you out of here, would you want to come back with me to California?" she suggested. "I've got a demon cult that's migraine-inducing, plus all that weird werewolf stuff. Besides, Dawn's off at school, so I have a spare bedroom at the moment."

"I'd like that," Faith said cautiously.

"Good." The other woman sprang to her feet. "I should go call Willow and update her, let her know that you're doing okay. Your Cleveland Slayers have been climbing the walls with worry, too. Before I go, how do you want to get back – magic, plane, road trip?" she said the last two words with slow glee.

She could read the unspoken cues. "Road trip?"

"It'll be fun," Buffy assured her. "I promise. You can tell me all about your Winchesters, and I'll tell you about Devan."

"Devan? Oh, yeah. Your new guy. How is that going, anyway?"

"It's . . ." The blonde hesitated. "I'll tell you later, okay? See you in a bit."

* * *

**June 2nd, 2012, Oakview Hospital, Rock Springs, Wyoming, 9:45 p.m.**

"Hey."

Even from the doorway, Faith could tell that the man had been crying. His eyelids were puffy, and the sclerae were irritated and red. "Dean?"

He approached her bed slowly, step by hesitant step. "Faith. I'm sor –"

Faith cut him off before things could take a turn for the maudlin. "Stop. You didn't kidnap me, shoot me full of crap, and turn me into a drug pincushion. That one's on our dear old friend Crowley. Are you okay? You don't have to be," she added in a rush.

The hunter carefully turned the corner at the end of the bed and sank into Buffy's abandoned chair. "I can't – can't stop," he told her. "Have to keep Purgatory closed. Have to stop Cass and Crowley and –"

He was giving her a familiar helpless look. The beginnings of determination shone in his eyes, and Faith knew instinctively that soon he would be leaving. "You do what you gotta do, Dean," she said with more confidence than she felt. "Even with whatever Cass did, my strength's shot for a few days, so I'd be next to useless. I'm gonna head back with Buffy."

"Oh. That's . . . that's probably good."

"Probably." Faith counted to five inside her head before mentioning the unmentionable. "Buffy told me, by the way. About Lisa and –"

"We're not talking about it," Dean interrupted her fiercely. "Not now, not ever. You got that?"

"Okay," mumbled the Slayer, feeling an odd disconnect. Today had to be opposite day, because she was having an easier go of it talking to Buffy than to Dean. Maybe she was still lost somewhere in Orpheus land. "We don't talk about it. Tell me more about that Purgatory thing?"

"I can't." Dean's hands were clenched hard on the arms of his chair. "We've – Sam and I've got to go. Bobby has a lead. He needs help."

"Then what's holding you up?" Faith demanded with more bite than usual. " _Go_."

The hunter froze and stared at her, a muscle pulsating in his cheek. "I needed – I – if I'd known he had you . . ."

Understanding dawned upon her at a glacial pace. "You're still high, aren't you? Buffy said you'd been taking things . . ."

"If – if I don't stay alert, I'll . . ."

"Crash and go boom? I get it," said Faith, although she didn't really approve. "Don't crash. Don't boom. That would be bad. Do what you have to. Kick Crowley in the ass – Castiel, too, if he won't see sense." She shifted in the bed. "Now get out of here – I'm gonna have to call the nurse in to help me pee in a minute, and you do _not_ want to see that."

Dean did not seem to be listening. "I would've killed them," he blurted. "Crowley – Cass. Either, both. If you'd gotten hurt, I would've killed them."

"I know," Faith murmured reassuringly. He was scaring her – or he would have been, if she had enough energy left to be scared. His eyes were wild and rolling, and she could smell the alcohol wafting off of him, strong as if he had bathed in it.

The hunter rose jerkily to his feet. "I have to go."

"I know," repeated the Slayer.

Still, Dean hesitated, debating something, then he stepped closer and kissed her gently on the forehead. "I'll see you soon," he said, the words filtering through whiskey fumes.

He left without looking back. Faith watched him go, her fingers winding through the hospital coverlet in search of the call button to summon the nurse.

A minute after Dean disappeared, Buffy wandered back into the hospital room. "Train wreck, isn't it?" She nodded her head in the direction the hunter had just departed in, but her words were without sting. "He looks worse than you do."

"Yeah."

The blonde reclaimed her chair. "So . . . I've been on the phone with Giles."

Faith raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yeah. He agrees with me that there's enough spook activity to justify moving a Slayer to Indianapolis."

"Michigan, you mean?" The younger woman frowned.

"No . . . Lisa wants to move back closer to her family. She's says she's done with hunters and Slayers and all of it. But she's okay with Slayers swinging past her house every other week and with your Becka and Lily meeting with her to go over self-defense and basic safety stuff. She, uh," Buffy coughed quietly. "She doesn't want to see you again. Or Dean. Uh, ever."

"Not a super big surprise there."

"Mmm." Buffy looked around the bare room and wrinkled her nose. "Spoke with your doctor while I was out. He thinks we might get to go downstairs to a regular floor in a couple of hours. Which would be good. I hate hospitals."

"Preaching to the choir, Buff. Preaching to the choir." But for once, Faith found that she didn't really mind. "Hey, can you do me a favor?"

She instantly had Buffy's attention. "Sure. What do you need?"

"Can you go get the nurse? I've really, really got to pee."


	115. Go Tell It on the Mountain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delayed update - hopefully I'll be back to my once a week schedule by next week. Only ten more chapters to go!

 

**June 9th, 2012, Elko, Nevada, 7:45 p.m.**

"Hello?" the Slayer answered her phone around a mouthful of burrito. Swallowing, she reached for a napkin to wipe away a streak of nacho cheese dribbling down her chin. When no instant response came, she repeated, "Hello? Dean, you there?"

A thousand miles away, the man inhaled raggedly. "He did it. God help him, he did it."

Faith risked a glance towards the motel bathroom, where Buffy had disappeared half an hour ago to talk to her warlock boyfriend. " _What_? You're not making sense, cowboy. Who did what?"

"Turn on your television, Faith. Just . . . Just turn it on."

"O-kay," said the Slayer dubiously, but she set her burrito down on the nightstand long enough to find the remote and press a few buttons. "Which channel?"

"The news. Doesn't matter which one."

Flipping from one station to the next, she finally landed on CNN. "What's going on, Dean? Did something happen with -"

"Just watch the TV. You'll know it when you see it."

With a sigh, the Slayer picked up her burrito and returned to munching. She might as well fill the bottomless pit in her stomach while she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, whatever it might be. To her relief, it only took sixty seconds before the newscasters switched from terrorism in the Middle-East to religious terrorism at home.

"And in just the last three days, the murder rate throughout the Bible Belt has skyrocketed, Bill," a brunette anchorwoman in a teal blouse was saying to her gray-haired male counterpart. "I mean, the numbers are simply incredible."

"Yes, Sally, they are. Folks, this week's bizarre death toll now includes over two hundred religious leaders from various faiths - all the way from radical Islam to evangelical Christianity - as well as the former Imperial Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan and a group of men who also were rumored to belong to the Klan."

Sally interrupted him. "Sorry to cut you off, Bill, but just in, the National Summit of International Motivational Speakers reports that a plane headed to their annual retreat crashed. All one hundred and fifty people aboard the plane were lost. Let's have a moment of silence to honor their lives."

"Holy frakking sh-t," Faith breathed into the phone while Sally and Bill stared into the camera, mournful expressions on their faces. "Dean, what's happening?"

"It's Cass," the hunter told her slowly. "He's . . . He busted into Purgatory. Absorbed thousands of souls. And now he's calling himself God."

"He _what_?" The Slayer's voice jumped an octave and a sixth. She nearly choked on her burrito. "Castiel? _Your_ Castiel? The one who can't find his ass with his own two hands? The one who gets pissed when you don't tell him a hundred percent exactly what to do and things get weird? The one who Crowley bamboozled -"

"I'm starting to think the bamboozling was equal parts Cass and Crowley," Dean admitted. Somewhere in the back of the call, an engine rumbled. "But that's not all."

Faith wasn't quite finished yet. " _Castiel_ – the angel who follows you around like a little lost puppy dog – he's decided to go rogue and declare himself the Great All-Powerful Man Upstairs? And there's _more_?"

The hunter cut her off. "Give it a rest, Faith."

"Sorry," she replied, instantly contrite. "He does kind of follow you around, though."

Dean exhaled heavily into the phone. "Not these days. Now he's God. But before he went and made himself deity, he blasted a hole in Sam's head. Knocked that wall down quicker than you could spit."

"Frak him," Faith growled, her contrition disappearing. She ripped the tortilla edge away from her burrito with her teeth. "That spineless dick. Couldn't even face you. When I lay my hands on him -"

"You forgetting the news already? He's killed nearly four hundred people this week. And that's not counting whatever bloodbath he had to wreak upstairs. Raphael's people would not have gone down without fighting. I need you to listen to me this time and stay away. He's not . . . he's not Cass anymore. He'll hurt you."

"Not if I hurt him first," she said with savage determination.

"Faith."

The Slayer gulped down her half-chewed wad of refried beans. "Fine," she agreed grudgingly. "I won't go after him. Yet."

Silence filled the line for a moment, and then Dean demanded, "What the _hell_ are you eating?"

"Burrito. Why?" The news channel went onto commercial, so Faith muted the television.

"Because I can hear you smacking all the way over in South Dakota," he complained. "Your mother ever teach you manners?"

"She was a little too busy being a hooker." The Slayer said it without heat. "Take it you're back at Bobby's?"

He coughed. "Yeah. The car took a hit, so I'm working on her. Hopefully by the time I get her fixed, Sam'll wake up from his Wonderwall coma, and I can get to work on fixing him."

"You're just fixing everything these days."

"Everything except Cass."

"Dean -"

Uninterested in continuing this line of conversation, the hunter stopped her. "Hey. I'm good."

Faith stared at the remote in her hand. "That wasn't what I was going to say." Her thumb traced the volume control buttons without actually pressing on them. Up and down, up and down, up and down.

"Shoot. What's on your mind?"

"I'll give him three weeks - Castiel, I mean. He's got three weeks to get over his little angel Rumspringa, and then we're going to deal with it. And by _we_ , I mean all of Slayer Command Central. Yeah, sure, he may be hopped up on soul juice right now, but we've got a decent amount of firepower on our side, especially if I can talk Willow into getting pissed off enough to loosen up on the brakes."

"Three weeks?" She could hear him thinking.

"Of course, if you want us before then, just say the word. I mean it, Dean. Whatever we got, it's yours."

"I hear you. You're coming in loud and clear, Houston. I, uh, I'd better go. Bobby's calling me."

"Be careful?"

"You got it, chief."

Dropping the phone onto the bed covers, Faith shoved the last remnants of her burrito into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. She flipped through the channels until she landed on an inane crime procedural. It was enough to take the edge off her frustrations and to just let things run through her mind.

Castiel had declared himself God? _Castiel_? It boggled the brain. It made absolutely zero sense. But then she considered the angel's inability to function without purpose. It looked as though he had taken purpose into his own hands.

_This can only end badly_ , the Slayer thought as she watched a blonde woman in a suit start haranguing a suspect. _Castiel? As God? The world is screwed._

"Hey." Buffy poked her towel-wrapped head through the bathroom door. "Is it safe to come out?"

The brunette raised an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't it be safe?" she asked, wadding up her burrito wrapper into a tiny ball and shooting it into the trashcan on the other side of the room.

Clad in the latest version of her yummy sushi pajamas, Buffy shrugged. "You were on the phone. It sounded important."

Faith returned the shrug with an equanimous one of her own. "Just Dean."

"Something go wrong?" the blonde guessed shrewdly.

The brunette shrugged a second time. "His best friend swallowed a shit-ton of power and rigged the election for God. Guess you could say he pulled a Willow. Only he ate souls from another dimension instead of just straight-up channeling the dark magicks. So, you know, just the usual."

"Just the usual?" Buffy nearly squeaked.

As the television procedural wrapped up, a commercial for Carl's Jr. filled the screen. Faith rubbed halfheartedly at her stomach. That burrito had been tasty enough, but she was still hungry.

"Yeah," she answered Buffy's question after her belly rumble passed. "Dean and Sam, they don't exactly have what you might call luck when it comes to friends. People die, people get possessed by demons, people call themselves God. Hell," she snorted, "they almost make you and me look normal."

"Do they need help?"

Faith shook her head. "Dean doesn't want it. I think he reckons he can try to talk Castiel down, once the immediate rush wears off. I gave him three weeks."

"Three weeks?"

"And then we're handling it – that is, if you're in this with me." The younger woman glanced down at her hands.

"I'm in," said Buffy without hesitation. "If you think Castiel needs handling, then I'm in. All the way."

The Slayers exchanged a brief smile. As she unmuted the television, Faith began humming under her breath. _Go, tell it on the mountain, over the hills, and everywhere. Go, tell it on the mountain - that Ca-ass-ti-el is born._

Cass might be playing God at the moment, but he wouldn't stay God for long. Not if the Slayer had her way. Three weeks. She had promised Dean three weeks. After that . . . Faith smiled grimly to herself. After that, the fun would begin.

* * *

**June 30th, 2012, Cleveland, Ohio, 9:20 p.m.**

Dean's three weeks had nearly coursed to their end when Faith finally received a call on her cellphone. She was halfway through writing an essay for her business management capstone course, and the Slayer eagerly tabbed out of the paper to answer the familiar guitar lick.

"Hey, I've been waiting to hear from you. Tell me - did Cass see reason, or do me and my girls need to go in after your feathery friend?"

"Evenin', Faith." The voice that greeted her did not belong to Dean.

The Slayer's gut sank halfway down to her toes. "Bobby?" She tried to sound calm. "You're using Dean's phone. He okay?"

"He's fine," replied the older hunter tersely. "Broken leg, but he'll live. We got other problems."

Her fingers tightening around her cell phone, Faith abandoned her essay completely and closed her laptop. "Sitrep?"

"I don't have time to go into details," he grumbled. "But here's the gist. First off, Castiel is dead."

That was a quick turnaround, thought the Slayer, but she kept it to herself.

"Looks like he didn't just swallow souls when he opened that gate into Purgatory. He swallowed something else - a legion of something else's. Nasty, ancient creatures. They call themselves the Leviathans, but they've also been called the Old Ones. Cass tried to send them back to Purgatory, but they took control, slipped out of his meat suit, and now they're everywhere."

He paused for breath. While Faith waited for him to continue, she slipped her computer and its charger into her faded black backpack and began throwing a few extra essentials into her go-bag. If her suspicions proved correct, she was going to need it.

"They found us at my place," Bobby resumed his story. "Blew the whole thing to bits. That's when Dean busted his leg and Sam got smacked upside the head. The doctors at the hospital thought he might have a concussion or a bleed. Guess the CT was fine, but we had to leave before they got the MRI."

The Slayer filled in what he wasn't saying. "Leviathans track you down there, too?"

"Right. We're headed to Rufus's old place out in Whitefish, Montana. I don't got a lot of time - the boys are sleeping in the car , and we just stopped for gas. Can you come?"

"Bobby, I'm supposed to fly out to London day after tomorrow. This isn't really a good – "

"That wasn't a request, princess. Here, listen. He left this on my voicemail."

Faith pressed her ear closer to the phone to better hear the crackly recording coming through the speaker. It was Dean's voice speaking: rushed and furious and fractured.

"You cannot be in that crater back there. I can't . . . If you're gone, I swear I am going to strap my Beautiful Mind brother into the car and I'm gonna drive us off the pier. You asked me how I was doing? Well, _not good_! Now you said you'd be here. Where are you?"

"Holy . . ." The Slayer's whisper trailed off into nothing. "Bobby -"

"That is why this isn't a matter of goddamn convenience. I can't handle both of these boys at once. Not when Sam's hallucinating his ass off with a head injury to boot and Dean's . . . not when Dean's like this. You care about these boys, you get your ass in gear. 'Cause I'm gonna need all the help I can get."

Crossing the room, Faith began rifling through her closet and throwing clothes onto the bed to add to her go-bag. "Okay, Bobby. I'm coming. Text me the address, or your coordinates, or however you like to do it. I'll be there soon as I can."

"Good," said Bobby shortly. "Cause I got a feeling you're the only person that boy's gonna listen to. More important, you might be the only one he'll talk to. He's not doing good, Faith."

There was no need to ask which boy he was referring to. "Yeah, I heard the voicemail. I'm on my way."

* * *

**July 2nd, 2012, Whitefish, Montana, 7:30 p.m.**

The last rose rays of sunset had almost faded beyond the horizon by the time Faith arrived at her destination. Following Bobby's instructions, she turned her Harley into the gravel drive and pulled up in front of a homely log cabin. Faith parked next to a rusty old junker. She swung her leg back over the motorcycle seat, removed her helmet, and fished her squished duffel out of one of the saddle bags.

Her boots crunched on the gravel as she walked up to the cabin's front door. The Slayer scanned the pine shingles on the pitched roof and rapped on the door with her elbow. Almost instantaneously, the door opened to reveal a middle-aged man with the beginnings of a pot belly and a trucker cap.

"Come on in," said Bobby Singer, and he moved aside to let her pass.

Faith stepped into the cabin and glanced around her. The first floor was divided into two living areas. The main one, where she found herself now, contained a sink, stove, refrigerator and a few countertops as well as a table and chairs. A ragged red sofa and matching chair were set in front of the television directly to her left. At the far end of the room, a couple of steps led upwards to where two camp beds flanked a fireplace.

"My god." The Slayer nearly raised a hand to ward off the smell of stale sweat and old take-out that was filling her nose. She took a half-step towards the sofa, where Dean lay passed out. His white plaster cast poked out from beneath a threadbare blanket. Sam was sprawled in the easy chair, his eyes closed. "Jeez, Bobby. You weren't kidding."

"Not so loud," said Bobby warningly. "They only just fell asleep. Dean's been awake for the past couple of days - finally got him to take enough pain killers to knock him out. Good thing he is, too. He's grumpier than a bear when he's conscious."

"And Sam?"

The hunter shrugged. "Acting normal, but it's Sam, so who knows if that means anything."

Nothing for her to argue with in that statement. "I stopped on the way in and picked up supplies. Pie for Dean, popcorn for me, a couple of bags of salad for Sam, frozen pizza and beer for you. It's all still strapped to the bike."

Bobby's thin lips stretched into a faint smile. "Girl, you are welcome to do the grocery shopping anytime."

Faith let that one pass. "One more question, Bobby." Now that she was closer, she could see that even he had circular stains spreading out from beneath his arms. Oh, well. Beating around the bush did no one any favors. "Not to be rude or nothing, but when was the last time any of you gents had a shower?"

* * *

He woke to the smell of buttery popcorn and the faint echo of gunfire. Between heartbeats, he recognized the gunfire as coming from an old Western, and then he let it go. His head was resting on something warm and hard – a leg – and a nailed hand was gently ruffling through his hair and scratching his scalp. Above his head, someone was eating rather loudly. _Crunch. Crunch._

Dean did not bother opening his eyes. "Faith?"

_Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. "_ Shhh," came the familiar admonition. _Crunch_. "Go to sleep."

As he turned his head down further towards the couch cushions, the hunter's nose pressed against her leg. He inhaled dust and motor oil and the faintest hint of the Slayer's detergent. "If you get popcorn grease on me . . ."

"So help me God?" joked Faith, and she ran a light hand from his forehead to the nape of his neck and back again. "Don't worry. It's separation of church and state up here. Popcorn hand doesn't touch you." _Crunch. Crunch._ The Slayer reached for Dean's blanket and tugged it back up to his chin. "Relax."

Behind his closed eyes, Dean did just that. He fell back into his opiate-induced haze and allowed the soothing touch to relax him until finally he drifted away into sleep.

* * *

**July 3rd, 2012, Whitefish, Montana, 8:30 a.m.**

When morning came, the last of Dean's drugged good mood had dissipated. He slowly crutched his way off the couch and to the bathroom. With every moment that passed, he was becoming more and more pissed. The hunter thought that he could hold it in – keep his mouth shut for just a little while longer. Sam was wandering around looking shakier than a newborn foal, and Bobby's self-congratulation for having called in the Slayer was obvious. Dean didn't want to deal with the drama that always followed him rocking the boat.

As luck would have it, in the end the Slayer handled things for him. Somehow managing to convince his Beautiful Mind brother to do the breakfast dishes, she suggested Dean step outside with her to look at something on her Harley. He wasn't fooled for an instant. Faith took better care of that motorcycle than either of her parents had even taken care of her. If something had been wrong with her bike, she would have been more upset.

Still, it provided as good an excuse as any, so Dean followed her outside. He hobbled over the threshold on his crutches, and the Slayer closed the door behind them. By unspoken agreement, he led the way past the motorcycle, past Bobby's current junk machine that had gotten them from South Dakota, out to an overgrown wooden planter that had once been filled with flowers. Now, it was only filled with weeds.

Dean settled his hips down against the planter, taking some of the weight off his arms and good leg. "So. You wanna tell me why Bobby called you out here to be my babysitter? Or should I just go ahead and start guessing?"

The Slayer lowered herself onto the planter next to him, but she said nothing, merely gazed at the trees to avoid his dead-eyed stare.

"Okay." He could read her silence. "Guessing it is. He played you that voicemail, didn't he?" the hunter demanded. "That goddamned stupid voicemail? And you threw yourself up onto your white horse and came dashing to my rescue. That about cover it?"

"He did show me the voicemail," she admitted.

Resisting the urge to throw his hands into the air, Dean snorted. "I knew it. Look, I'm fine, okay, Faith? I'm fine. Other than this damn shattered tibia, I'm just fine."

She looked at him warningly. "Dean -"

"What?" he snapped.

"Keep your voice down. You really want Sam or Bobby to hear this conversation?"

His response was a sullen, "No."

"I didn't think so." Faith interlocked her fingers and wrapped her hands around her knee. "Come on, cowboy," she encouraged in an undertone. "It's time to put your cards on the table. What's going on - what's really going on? Is this about Cass? Or Sam? Or Lisa?"

" _Don't_."

Faith forged ahead. " _Lisa_. I said her name. Deal with it. Dean, at some point, you're gonna have to talk about Wyoming. Doesn't have to be with me."

Dean let out a strangled laugh with no humor in it. "Oh really? Then why're you trying to shrink me all the damn time, huh? What's that about? Why can't you leave me alone?"

With an aimless lift of her shoulder, the Slayer turned her chin up to the sky. "Handful of reasons. Because Bobby thinks of you like a son and you've got him scared stiff. Because your little brother's a powder keg just waiting for someone to light up a Camel and send the world up in smoke, and neither me nor Bobby've got the slightest idea on how to talk him down. Those are some of the reasons, but they're not the main one."

Of course not. Because nothing in his life could ever be that simple. "And what's that?"

The woman abandoned her pretense of examining the clouds. Instead, she nudged him with her elbow. "Because you're my best damn friend in the whole damn world, and I've got eyes, Dean. You're not doing good. I don't need a damn message on Bobby's phone to tell me that. I can see it."

Leaning in, Faith made an obvious show of sniffing the hunter. "Not just seeing, either. I can _smell_ it. I can hear it when you talk. This little discussion isn't about Sam or Bobby. It's not because I'm worried about Castiel or Leviathans or Heaven or Hell or any of that shit. Not deep down. Not where it counts. This is between you and me – and it stays between you and me. So if you're hanging in there because Daddy didn't raise no quitters or complainers, just screw it. What's going on, Dean? What's _wrong_?"

Her voice burned with intensity, but the volume never changed. Dean wondered briefly when she had perfected that skill. At length, when it became clear that she was waiting for his reply and that she was content to outlast him, he began to talk.

"Cass is dead." Even now, saying the words hurt. "I know you weren't exactly a fan, but after you, he is – _was_ – the closest thing to a friend I got. These Leviathans or Old Ones or whatever they're calling themselves – they don't die, Faith. I got no idea how to kill them. And Bobby's never heard about anything like them, ever. Sam? He's having chit-chats with the Devil. In his _head_. And he thinks they're real."

Dean inhaled. "And now my damn leg's broken, and I can't even go fifty feet on these stupid crutches before my arms crap out on me. But hey, I'm still here, right? I'm still kicking. I didn't drive off a pier. So I'm fine."

The Slayer's shoulder brushed his. "You're not fine," she contradicted him flatly.

Incredulous, he stared at her. "What do you want me to say, Faith? That all I need is hugs and kisses and sparkly princess Band-Aids and then everything will be better? Newsflash, Faith – this ain't some PSA for confused teenagers. This is my goddamned life. It doesn't get better!"

Pushing himself up with his crutches, Dean watched her expression close off and shut down. Dammit, he should not have yelled. Not at her. Desperately, the hunter wished he could turn the clock back: back to Cicero, back to Lisa and Ben. Back to those first two weeks when his brother had returned, back when he was oblivious and everything seemed to make sense.

"Thanks for making the drive out here," he said, his words a gruff dismissal.

Arms crossed over her chest, chin set stubbornly, Faith rose to her feet. "I'm sticking around." It was as much a threat as a promise. "Got two last classes to wrap up my online degree. Thought I'd take advantage of the peace and quiet to write the final few essays here. So don't thank me just yet. I'm not going anywhere."

"You know the internet's going to be crap all the way out here."

"I know."

"So _why_?"

"Because." The Slayer took a step in the direction of the road. "Someone has to make sure you shower every other day and get calories from something other than beer. So come on, hopalong. Let's see if we can't get you past those fifty feet."


	116. Dirty Little Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains major spoilers for SPN 7x03, 'The Girl Next Door.' Also, I decided to take a few risks with this one, and I'm not entirely sure if it comes off quite as well as I intended. Ah, well. I'll allow you to be the judge of that.

 

* * *

For the next three weeks, Faith tried to make the best of an awkward situation. She spent her mornings sitting at the kitchen, pounding out essays and throwing together power points while Dean slept fitfully in front of the television screen and Sam camped out in the basement, attempting Leviathan research on his laptop. A little before lunch, the Slayer peeled away from her classwork and herded Sam out into the woods for a run.

Running served three purposes – it gave her a chance to stretch her legs, to shake off some of the restless energy building to a head inside her. It gave her an excuse to explore the trails around the cabin. If – when – they needed to run, Faith wanted to know the best escape routes. Third, and somewhat most importantly, as her runs with Sam turned into sparring with Sam, she had a greater opportunity to keep an eye on the hunter, to gauge just how splintered the cracks in his armor were.

Bobby left after the fifth day, but he returned three days latter with Dean's Impala and then took off again. Every six days or so, he showed up with a new box full of books retrieved from one of his many hiding places.

With Bobby gone, Faith slept on the couch, every night kicking Dean away from his preferred brooding spot around one a.m. Night or day, he was cranky, and the itching, flaking skin beneath his cast only made it worse. Most mornings and afternoons, the Slayer cajoled him out of his sulks and television for long enough to make him stretch his legs on his crutches. First just to the end of the drive, and then further and further each day. Those five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes provided Faith the chance to update him on her suspicions about Sam.

When the Slayer needed to run errands, she zipped off on her bike and rode out to a town at least thirty miles away, choosing a new direction each time. She returned with saddlebags full of groceries and other necessities. After four days of take-out, she took pity on her skin and began attempting to cook. The next day, when she intentionally mangled the spaghetti sauce, Sam joined her in the kitchen, where he magically managed to coax the Slayer and his brother into eating multiple vegetables at the same meal.

On roughly day eleven, Faith started losing her mind. This . . . being holed up in the middle-of-nowhere Montana was the closest thing she had had to a Slayer vacation in years, and she absolutely hated it. She needed something to fight, something to Slay, and her palms itched from the inactivity. She increased her sparring matches with Sam to twice daily and poured her restless energy into investigating the twin mysteries of the Brothers Winchester, until that, too, grew boring.

Some nights, after the dishes or pizza boxes had been cleared away, the three of them bundled into the Impala and took off for a nearby bar to scam a few games of pool. Clad in black leather and red lipstick, Faith provided the necessary half-drunk distraction while Sam and Dean laid the trap. The Slayer welcomed those nights. They were almost the only thing that could drag Dean out of his deeper funks.

It was not the most comfortable of living circumstances, but it worked. As long as no one made too much of a mess in the bathroom, they could make do. Until the day that Sam caught wind of a case, and their tentative equilibrium was shattered.

* * *

**July 25th, 2012, Whitefish, Montana, 10:12 a.m.**

"Where are you going?"

Faith froze with her hand on the cabin door and slowly glanced over her shoulder towards the red couch where Dean's tousled head poked up over the back of the upholstery. She had hoped to slip off this morning unnoticed. She had just submitted the final paper for her final class, and she had half-formed plans for celebrating floating around inside her head. But first, there were some things that she needed to take care of.

Shifting her motorcycle bag higher up on her arm, the Slayer said, "Just got a couple of errands to run."

He wasn't buying it. "You went to the store yesterday," the hunter pointed out.

"It's Slayer stuff," she improvised. "Gotta nip out to somewhere with better wifi. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

Curiosity satisfied, Dean's head disappeared behind the couch again. "Bring lunch? Sam's threatening to poison me with rabbit food again."

Faith snickered. "You still upset about breakfast?"

"Omelettes should be seventy-five percent cheese and twenty-five percent egg," insisted Dean. "Not this ten percent cheese, twelve percent egg, two hundred percent broccoli crap."

Fingers curled around the doorknob, the Slayer fidgeted. If she didn't hurry, she would miss her appointment. "Lunch it is."

Before he could find another complaint, she slipped out through the front door and crossed the gravel drive in six quick steps. Her Harley roared to life as soon as she turned the key in the ignition. Faith released the kick stand and flew away down the road. After three plus weeks in Whitefish, the twists and turns of highway 93 were as familiar to her as most of the roads around Cleveland. She navigated her way through the summer tourist traffic with half her mind on her eleven o'clock meeting.

Twenty minutes later, the woman pulled up outside her destination. She hadn't really been lying to Dean. This might be personal and not official Slayer business, but Faith was a Slayer, so it was practically unofficial Slayer business. If she looked at it slantwise, it was in the same general neighborhood as the truth.

Faith parked her bike and removed her blood-red helmet. Looking up at her destination, she tossed her head from side to side, her ponytail bouncing against her skull. She glanced briefly at her watch. Ten forty-five. Good. She would even have time for her fifteen minutes of paperwork.

Jamming her hands into her pockets, the Slayer took a deep breath and strode towards the Alpine Women's Center.

* * *

By the time she returned to the old hunting cabin, nearly three hours had passed. As she turned into the short driveway, Faith immediately realized that something was off. While Rufus' ancient pickup was in its customary place near the corner of building, the Impala was gone.

Faith frowned. To the best of her knowledge, Sam hadn't been planning on running any errands that morning. Her guts twinged. Wincing slightly, the Slayer fished a plastic bag filled with street tacos out of her saddlebags and headed into the cabin.

She had hardly crossed the threshold when she was corned by a pissed-off Dean on his crutches. He swarmed into her personal space before she could even get the front door closed. He was awake, far more awake than she had seen him in days, his eyes wide and manic, furious words pouring out as he thrust a crumpled piece of notebook paper into her face.

"Did you know about this?" the hunter demanded.

"Dean, breathe," Faith snapped. Reaching for the paper, she shoved the tacos at him. "Here. Eat your damn lunch."

The hunter did not take the hint. Instead, he stared at her angrily, his arms crossed over his stomach, while she read the scribbled sentence fragments on the note.

_Back in a few days. I'm fine. Sam._

Looking up, the Slayer crumpled the note, as Dean must have done half a dozen times already. "Other shoe dropped, then?"

His anger abating, Dean nodded. "Other shoe."

"You think he's off road-trippin' with Lucifer?"

"And left me here like Jimmy friggin' Stewart? Yeah. That's exactly what I told Bobby, but you know Bobby. If Sam's head's not on fire, he's fine playing voicemail tag."

"Sam's not answering his phone, is he?"

The hunter shook his head. "No. Phone's off. Goes straight to voicemail. And he's killed the GPS, too."

"Maybe." The pain in her stomach forgotten, Faith darted across the kitchen to her laptop. She fired a few letters of type into the address bar on her web browser. "But he might not have thought of everything."

Dean sank onto the wooden chair next to her, staring at the computer screen. "Your loJack?" he asked in disbelief. "I took that off my car almost a year ago, as soon as you mentioned it."

Faith shrugged. "Yeah, and I put another one on a couple of days after I got here." She typed in the serial number.

"And you didn't tell me?"

"Welll . . ." The Slayer chose not to meet his gaze. "I wasn't exactly sure which one of you I was gonna have to use it on, to be honest. Sam has his whole Harvey thing goin' on, but you weren't exactly in a good place either." She pressed enter. "Okay, here we go."

They watched the flashing blue triangle that represented the Impala as it bleeped and blinked its way south down MT-83.

"Where's he headed?" Dean muttered under his breath.

Squinting at the screen, Faith wondered, "You two ever been to Bozeman before?"

"Not that I remember," the hunter denied. "I mean, we've driven through it a time or two, but we haven't had too many cases out there. There's a couple of hunters on the Flathead Reservation near Seeley Lake. Even when Rufus lived up here, they tended to handle all the stuff in the area."

The Slayer pursed her lips. "What exactly happened while I was gone? Start at the beginning."

Dean frowned. "You left a little after ten. Maybe a few minutes after that, Sam came up from the basement and said he was out of reading material and that he couldn't wait for you to get back. He was gonna swing by the gas station on ninety-three, pick up a paperback. I told him to get pie for tonight. He was gone for about forty minutes. Came back with cake instead of pie. He disappeared back down into the basement, and I took a nap."

"More pie?" commented Faith, momentarily side-tracked. "I'm not judging, but isn't there still a slice of lemon meringue in the fridge?"

"Sam figured that you were probably finishing your last class today. We were gonna surprise you. Guess it doesn't matter now."

She was oddly touched. "That's, uh, that's nice of you. So, you went to sleep and then woke up to Sam's note?"

Dean nodded fiercely. "About sums it up. Just got off the phone with Bobby when I heard the Harley. We gotta find him, Faith. I'm not giving Sam the three days until this damn cast comes off. We gotta go find him, now."

"Yeah." The Slayer stared at the blue icon on her laptop screen. "I think you're right. You check the basement yet, see if he's been working on anything down there?"

"Can't." He gestured to his crutches. "These damn things won't handle those stairs. Though if you'd been another ten minutes, I probably would've tried."

Faith shut the computer. "Right. I'll take a look. You wanna pack up the spare ice chest? Grab the tacos and the cake and stuff? If we're hunting Sam and his imaginary rabbits, we might as well take lunch."

"You got it, chief."

* * *

The Slayer returned to the main room of the cabin a few minutes later, a rolled-up newspaper clenched in her left hand. Dean glanced up from the half-filled blue Coleman. "Anything?"

"Just this." Faith dropped the newspaper onto the kitchen table. She spread it flat with both hands. "Yesterday's _Daily Chronicle._ Front page's all about some Ice Pick Killer striking in Bozeman. You think Sam decided to take on the mob?"

_Ice Pick Killer. Ice Pick Killer._ "Give me that," Dean ordered bluntly, sticking his hand out.

An eyebrow lifted, the woman passed over the newspaper nonetheless. "Knock yourself out, champ."

The hunter devoured the article in thirty seconds. "I dunno," he said after finishing. "But he's headed to Bozeman, and this's the best we got. So if Sam's working this case, we're gonna work this case. Go-bags are by the door. You good to drive?"

"Sure." Faith thought with faint longing of the ibuprofen lurking in the bathroom cabinet. "Just let me grab some floss."

* * *

**July 25th, 2012, Gallatin County Coroner's Office, Bozeman, Montana, 6:45 p.m.**

"Thanks for meeting us so late." Dean smoothed the front of his fed suit unnecessarily and extended his hand in the direction of the county coroner, a middle-aged man whose hair was graying at the temples.

"Not at all. Always happy to help the Bureau. Thanks for the call, Agent Plant, and, uh, Agent -"

"Jett," Dean supplied quickly before Faith's glower could grow deeper. Knowing how much she disliked masquerading as an FBI agent, he had told her she could stay in the car, but the Slayer seemed to be in a temper, and she had insisted on tagging along.

Smiling tightly, hunter and Slayer flashed their FBI IDs to the coroner. He nodded in satisfaction. "Just this way, if you'll follow me."

The man led the agents past the front desk along a dimly lit hallway to the morgue itself. After he flipped the light switch, the coroner crossed the room to the stainless steel drawer coolers set in the opposite wall. He opened one of the drawers to reveal the corpse of a scrawny man in his late sixties. "This is the one the other agent asked to see."

"Great, great," Dean repeated himself. He could feel the Slayer's silent disapproval at his side. She had been _off_ on the whole drive down from Whitefish, but he didn't have time to get into it now. Not when Sam was pulling an Invisible Man. Whatever crap was going on inside Faith's head, it would have to wait until he took care of his little brother. "Uh, let me ask you, did he do anything to it?"

His brow furrowing, the coroner shook his head in denial. "No. He just asked a few questions about the other vics - missing pituitary glands and so forth."

"Mmm." Another key piece to the puzzle. "Thank you, uh, Coroner Baker, was it? That's all we need for the moment, I think. We'll be back in touch if we have any more questions."

Dean crutched his way back through the building and outside to Rufus' truck, grateful that the Slayer had the sense to not ask questions until the rusty doors of the Ford had slammed closed. Buckling his seatbelt, he spoke at last. "Son of a bitch."

"Pituitary glands mean something to you?" Faith slipped out of her navy blazer and folded it in two quick movements. She reached into the cooler sitting on the bench seat between them and withdrew a half-frozen bottle of water.

Already dialing Bobby on his cell phone, Dean waited for her to take a sip and then pulled the plastic bottle out of Faith's hands. "Yeah," he said after gulping down what little water remained. "You ever hear of a kitsune?"

"No." The Slayer narrowed her eyes peevishly. "But I got a feeling you're about to tell me."

"They're pretty rare," Dean admitted as his call continued to ring out. "Dad and I hunted one out in Nebraska back in ninety-eight. Kitsunes are, uh, well, they look like humans, but they can sprout these claws, and, uh, rip into your brain to get to the pituitary. It's like catnip to them, only unlike catnip, it's not optional. They die without the stuff."

His tone changed. "Hey, Bobby. It's me. I, uh, I think I know what Sam's after. He's tracking a kitsune."

While the hunter updated Bobby, Faith pulled up the loJack website on her phone. Where are you, Sam? What are you doing?

"Was there anything remarkable about that case?" she asked when Dean finally finished and dropped his mobile into his lap.

"No. It didn't make the greatest hits list." He leaned over and peered at her phone. "You got something?"

"Looks like your brother's been parked outside the same house on Wilson Ave for the last half-hour. Place was leased about six months ago by a chick named Amy Pond. She's a mortician at Dahl Funeral and Cremation Services. Reckon she might be the brain gourmand we're looking for?"

Dean fished the slice of lemon meringue pie out of the cooler. "You can do a lot on that phone of yours."

The Slayer turned her keys in the ignition. "I may have texted Becka and asked her to run a quick title search. She's working on some bridge project all night. Said this would be a welcome break. So, to Amy Pond's house we go?"

Gesturing vehemently with his fork, the hunter swallowed. "Nah. Two blocks away. We'll walk from there."

* * *

Ultimately, Dean's paranoia kicked in, and he insisted on Faith parking the rusting pickup truck three blocks away from the house leased by Amy Pond. Armed with a knife in one hand and a machete at his belt, he left his crutches in the back of the pickup and took quick, tentative steps on his broken leg. He'd been in the cast for almost four weeks already; it would have to bear some weight. Besides – crutches cancelled out stealth, and the choice between the two of them was an easy one to make.

Upon reaching the mortician's block, Faith and Dean crept from shadow to shadow until they came to the house in question. The Impala was parked in the driveway, plain as daylight. Dean spared one longing look for his beloved car, but then he led the way around the corner of the garage towards the fenceless back yard. Slayer at his heels, he slowly approached the glass patio door.

After pressing his ear to the door, the hunter tried the handle. It was unlocked, and Dean pushed the door open just enough so that the soft rumble of quiet voices carried to them on the night air.

"It's over," said a woman's voice pleadingly.

"You can't guarantee that." The retort, filled with a surprising amount of emotion, came from Sam.

"Jacob's better now," continued the female voice. "I don't need to kill anymore. It's _over_ , Sam. I promise. I give you my word." There was a pause, and then, "How is spilling more blood gonna help anyone? You could still walk away form this. We both can, Sam. After what I did for you . . ."

When he next spoke, Sam's voice was strained. "You killed your mother."

"For you, Sam," emphasized the kitsune. "For _you_. Please, trust me. I give you my word. It's over."

There came a sharp intake of breath. "Okay," said Sam finally. "Okay. I trust you."

Footsteps crossed the room, and the front door opened and closed with a heavy thud. Dean waited until the familiar rumble of the Impala's engine had faded away before turning to Faith. As their eyes met, he gave her a single nod. _I got this._

The Slayer's hand tightened on the dagger at her hip, but she inclined her head in acquiescence. _Fine_.

Time to go. Dean pulled the patio door open a few scant inches more and slipped into the kitchen. He padded silently across the white linoleum towards the doorway from where the voices had come. Gradually, the kitsune came into view.

A thin brunette in her mid-thirties, she stood with her back towards the kitchen. As Dean approached, she exhaled loudly, and her shoulders slumped downwards in relief. "It's over," she mumbled under her breath. "It's finally over."

Dean cleared his throat behind her. "Not quite."

The woman spun around, her eyes widening in panic. "Who are - "

Green eyes cold as steel, the hunter did not waste time on pleasantries. "Sam's brother. You must be Amy."

"Sam - he just - "

"Left." Dean smiled grimly. "Yeah, I know. I heard your little conversation."

"Then you know. It's all done. My son - "

He waved her protestations away with a single hand. "I know. It's over, it's done, it'll never happen again. I've heard it all before." Dean took another step into the living room, and he began slowly circling the woman. "Thing is, Amy. People . . . They are who they are. No matter how hard you try, you are what you are. You are gonna kill again."

"I won't," promised the kitsune in a rush. Her hazel eyes flickered from Dean to the front door to the staircase and back to Dean. "I _swear_."

Dean continued to circle around her. "Trust me, I'm an expert. Maybe in a year, maybe ten. But eventually, the other shoe will drop. It always does . . ." His voice trailed away as he stared at the kitchen door from where he had come.

Taking the bait, Amy glanced behind her. In her moment of distraction, the hunter struck, sliding his knife neatly into her fifth rib space and piercing her heart. The kitsune's eyes widened in shock, and her knees gave way.

"I'm sorry," murmured Dean. He caught her under the armpits and lowered her gently to the couch. The hunter withdrew his knife and wiped it on the leg of his jeans with a long sigh. "But the shoe always drops."

Something creaked on the staircase, and the man turned his head. A small boy, perhaps ten years old, was standing at the base of the staircase, staring with slack-jawed horror and incomprehension at his mother lying on the couch. Dean sighed again, this time for completely different reasons.

"You got someone you can go to, kid?" He stepped back away from the corpse.

The boy moved down from the staircase onto the carpet. Stricken, he could not take his eyes off his mother. Still, he nodded.

"You ever kill anyone?" Dean asked, keeping his voice neutral.

The boy shook his head no.

"Well, if you do, I'll come back for you," the hunter promised.

Finally, the boy found his voice. "The only person I'm gonna kill is you."

"Well, look me up in a few years. Assuming I live that long," Dean added with a final glance at Amy's body on the sofa. He held up his hands, knife pointed down towards the carpet, and took another careful step backwards in the direction of the front door.

Given a clear path, the boy rushed to his mother's body. Dean cleared his throat loudly to summon Faith from the kitchen. "Let's go."

The Slayer slipped into the living room, one hand still on the hilt of her dagger. She took in the small boy clutching the dead woman's hand and raised an eyebrow. "He a kitsune, too?"

Startled, the child looked upwards as Dean nodded. "Yeah. But he hasn't killed anybody."

"Yet," she said in such a low whisper that it barely carried. Her eyes were dark sunken pits in the center of her face. "For what it's worth, kid, I'm sorry."

And then, in a fraction of a second, it was over. The Slayer took two steps towards the boy, caught his shoulder with one hand, and slid her knife into his back with the other. One quick movement, in and out. It was almost tender. She laid him on the floor next to his mother and turned away, striding quickly to the front door.

Horrified, Dean followed her outside, where he found her vomiting into the trash can at the side of the driveway, one hand clutching her still-bloody knife, the other hand pushing tendrils of dark hair away from her forehead.

"What the _hell_ was that?" he demanded in a sharp voice, equal parts furious and frightened.

Faith looked at him with eyes of fire. "It had to be done," she nearly spat. "Isn't it time the cycle stops? We'd better get the hell out of here before the cops come. Or, worse, your lovesick brother. Now, come on."

* * *

Dean kept his mouth shut for the first half of the drive home. Faith was driving like a maniac, the gas pedal pressed down to the floor. If he thought she had been speeding on the way down to Bozeman, it was nothing compared to now. For the first three hours, neither of them said a word. Not even the radio was playing.

At first, the hunter had thought the throwing up incident had been just that – an incident. Possibly related to remorse. But then, forty-five minutes out from Bozeman, Faith pulled the pickup off to the side of the road and retched her guts out in a cluster of bushes. Then she was back behind the wheel, rubbing her mouth on the sleeve of her shirt and cursing poorly refrigerated street tacos. And an hour and a half later, she stopped to puke again.

Finally, enough became enough. "We gonna talk about what happened back there?"

For a long moment, the Slayer said nothing. Her hands merely tensed on the steering wheel. Then, in a quiet, strangled voice, she mumbled, "Can we talk later? Trying not to redecorate the windshield here."

Bad tacos or not, he was not letting her off that easy. "You went all Kill Bill on that kid. We talk now."

"Someone had to do it."

"O-kay." Dean filled the two syllables with skepticism.

Eyes locked on the road, Faith countered, "He would have killed someone eventually."

She almost had a point, and Dean knew it. "Probably," he said gruffly. "But he hadn't yet. He was a kid."

"It was still better than whatever would've happened, down the road," the Slayer insisted, unabashed. "Faster and kinder than starving to death. He was what – ten? How's a ten-year-old gonna find pituitaries? Besides, monsters shouldn't have kids."

Keeping his thoughts to himself, Dean waited. He could tell that there was something more where that had come from.

After another minute, the Slayer continued, "We heard the same things. That story of how she killed her mother to save Sam. She knew what she was risking, getting pregnant. She knew what she would be dooming him to. She _knew_. She'd known since she was a kid. It was selfish."

Everything wasn't quite adding up for Dean. Not yet. "This about more than that kitsune?"

"I went to the lady doctor this morning." Her consonants came out clipped, harsh.

The hunter froze. "You . . . what? Are you – is everything –"

Faith risked a glance at him out of the corner of her eyes and snorted. "Nothin' to get your panties in a twist about. Knew I was fixin' to run out of pills at the end of the month, so I set up an appointment Monday to get a refill. Ended up deciding to get an IUD rammed up inside me instead. That's where I went today."

She exhaled. "Wasn't exactly planning on spending the rest of the day harin' all over the state after your brother, or I probably would've rescheduled. But that's not the point. Monsters . . . like that kitsune, like _me_ , we shouldn't have kids. There. That answer all your questions?"

Dean swallowed. The few questions that he had: _What the hell is an IUD?_ And _how do they put one of those in?_ And _how much does that hurt?_ he didn't think she would answer. He could look most of them up on his phone anyway. Instead, he said softly, "Yeah. I'm good."

* * *

Not a word was spoken throughout the rest of the drive. Faith pulled over two more times to throw up. By the time they reached Rufus' cabin in the pale gray light of false dawn, her hands were trembling on the steering wheel. The second after she had shifted into park, she pushed open the door and slid down onto the gravel. She rushed inside on shaky legs without waiting for Dean to get out of the pickup.

The Slayer barely made it into the bathroom before a fresh onslaught of food poisoning hit her, crashing into her like a riptide and pulling her under. She crouched over the toilet, her hands braced on the white porcelain bowl, and retched. She retched until her abs ached and there was nothing left to come up but spit. Then she scrambled up onto the seat as the cramping reached her guts. When that, too, passed, Faith crawled into the shower.

She emerged half an hour later after running out of hot water and dragged on a pair of sweats and an ancient t-shirt that had belonged to Rufus. The Slayer hovered in the bathroom doorway, debating between the idea of bed and couch. She finally chose the latter, stumbling towards the red sofa. She collapsed onto the couch and closed her eyes. In the darkness and quiet, the nausea receded slightly.

"Hang on." A stiff voice interrupted her peaceful moment. "Get up for a second."

Faith opened her eyes to glare at the callused hand extended in her direction, but she took it nonetheless. Dean pulled her up and set a plastic blue mop bucket on the floor beside the couch. Then he twisted around her, sliding past the Slayer to sprawl on the sofa in her place. Dean's hand moved from the woman's wrist to her hip, and he tugged her down with him. They silently jockeyed for position, until they were both lying on their sides, the hunter squashed between Faith and the sofa cushions.

His cast propped up on the far end of the couch, Dean slipped one arm beneath the Slayer's head. With the other, he grabbed the faded afghan on the back of the sofa and dragged it down to cover the both of them. Reaching for the remote on the arm of the couch above his head, he flicked the television on to have some background noise. Thankfully, MTV was actually playing music videos for once, and he turned the Stones up just enough to drown out the silence.

_Childhood living –_  
_Is easy to do._  
_The things you wanted.  
_ _I got them for you._

"I'm not sorry," the Slayer muttered through chattering teeth. She wriggled closer. Beads of sweat had formed on her forehead, and her skin was scalding where it touched the hunter's elbow.

"I know." Dean drew the blanket higher and wrapped his free arm around the Slayer's side. Her fingertips came up to brush against his, and he slowly ran his thumb over the palm of her hand.

"Someone was gonna have to do it." A single tear leaked out from behind Faith's eyelids and trailed down her cheek.

"I know," the hunter repeated, the words murmured into her hair.

_Graceless lady,  
_ _You know who I am.  
_ _You know I won't let you  
_ _Just slide through my hands_.

"He wouldn't've stayed innocent forever." The sharp rattling of her teeth made her almost impossible to understand.

"Probably not," Dean agreed quietly. He was not granting her absolution, but then she had not asked for forgiveness. And they both knew as well as anyone that some things you simply had to live with.

The tears would not stop now. Her whole body shivering, Faith tucked her chin down towards her chest and retreated into the darkness behind her eyelids. "I'm not sorry," she insisted despite her tears. "I just feel like crap. Oh, g-d, I'm never eating tacos again."

"I hear you," said Dean. Grim-faced, he continued to eye the Stones as if Mick Jagger could magically solve all the wrong-footed problems in the world. "I hear you."

_And wild horses_  
_Couldn't drag me away._  
_Wild, wild horses  
_ _Couldn't drag me away._

* * *

**July 26th, 2012, Whitefish, Montana, 11:30 a.m.**

The sun had nearly risen to its zenith hours laters when a key turned in the front lock, and Sam crept back into the cabin. He carefully lowered his bag onto the wooden planking near the front door and tiptoed towards the still-playing TV and the large, shapeless mass lying still on the couch.

As he approached, a floorboard creaked beneath his feet. The mass moved, and his older brother lifted his head from beneath one of Rufus' old blankets. Opening one eye, Dean stared balefully at his brother.

Sam raised an eyebrow as he took in the empty blue bucket on the floor. "And here I was halfway expecting you two to be remaking Casa Erotica Fifteen . . ."

Dean cut him off before he could go further. "Not a word, Sammy. Not a word."

The younger hunter held up his hands. "Mea culpa. What's with the bucket?"

"Faith's got herself a stomach bug," said his brother shortly. "So wash your damn hands."

Wisely choosing not to comment on Dean's proximity to said stomach bug, Sam half-whispered, "You got it. I picked up a pizza on my way in. And I remembered the pie. I know it's a little later than we planned, but I thought we could celebrate anyway?" Hesitating, he risked a look at the still-slumbering Slayer tucked under the blanket. "Is Faith okay?"

"Five by five." Dean's smile was all teeth, with major bite behind it. "She'll get there," he continued in a low tone. As he glanced down at Faith, his voice lost some of its edge. "She'll get there."


	117. Cops and Robbers, pt 1

* * *

**July 26th, 2012, Whitefish, Montana, 3:30 p.m.**

To Dean's great relief, the horrible taco food poisoning incident of 2012 was not contagious. Shortly after twelve, he extricated himself from Faith and the couch and set to work devouring the leftovers of Sam's pizza. His little brother had once again retreated to the basement to work on whatever it was he studied down there. Frankly, Dean didn't mind. Lying was easier when he didn't have to do it to Sam's face.

Eventually, pizza and crap television became too boring, and the hunter decided to stretch his legs. Leaving his crutches against the kitchen table, Dean slowly hobbled back and forth along the length of the driveway. He gave Bobby a quick call to let him know that Sam had returned, and then he carefully went over every inch of his baby. If Sam had gotten so much as a single scratch on her . . .

When he ventured back inside an hour later, he was instantly struck by the sight of Faith's black backpack and red duffel sitting on the kitchen table. The Slayer herself stepped out of the bathroom as the front door closed, her damp hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing her riding leathers and had her toothbrush clutched in one hand.

Dean leaned back against the doorframe and folded his arms across his stomach. Raising his eyebrows, he said, "Seriously? You're taking off?"

The Slayer slipped her toothbrush into her duffel and then turned to face him. Propping her hips up on the edge of the table, she intentionally mirrored his position and crossed her arms. "I've stopped puking," she began her list of reasons. "My guts aren't sending me rushing to the toilet, and you get your cast off in two days. You don't need me anymore. And I can rustle up more background on the Leviathans out in Cleveland or California than I can here."

Although it was unlikely that Sam could hear them from his basement lair, Dean lowered his voice anyway. "This about yesterday?"

"Not really." Faith shrugged. "It's just time to go, Dean."

With that short phrase, the hunter knew he had already lost the battle. There was no point in arguing against a 'time to go.' Not one from Faith. Still, maybe he could coax her to linger a little longer. "You wanna stay for dinner? Sam actually brought back pie for once."

She smiled as though she could see straight through him. "Appreciate the offer, but if I eat, there's a good chance my intestines get shot to hell again. Besides," she tugged playfully at the waistband of her skintight pants, "there's only room for me in here, not me and pie."

"So this's it?" He couldn't prevent wistfulness from creeping into his voice. Keeping yesterday's actions a secret might be easier without the Slayer around, but he wished Faith wouldn't take off. These last few weeks, she had provided a welcome buffer between him and Sam, and Dean was reluctant to lose the space.

Her eyes glimmered with the same amusement that filled her smile. "For a bit. Take care of yourself, Butch. I know you'll look after Sundance, but try to look out for yourself, too?"

"Same goes for you, Etta."

Forehead wrinkling, Faith shot him a bemused look. "What?"

"Etta Place. You know, one of the chicks who ran with Cassidy's Wild Bunch?" Dean waved a hand. "Never mind. Drive safe."

Confusion fading back into a grin, the Slayer lifted her bags off the table and slipped out the front door, purposefully knocking her shoulder against his as she went. As he watched her go, Dean tried to look on the bright side. At least now, he would only have to share the pie in the fridge with his brother. It wasn't much, but it was something.

* * *

**August 14th, 2012, Cleveland, Ohio, 7:26 a.m.**

Faith answered her relentlessly ringing cell phone with a groggy, "What is it, Fred?"

"Good morning, Slayer," purred a cool female voice.

That was definitely not Fred. Startled, Faith pushed her blankets down to her waist and shook her head violently to clear the cobwebs. "Illyria?"

"Winifred Burkle said you desired to speak with me."

Rubbing frustratedly at her eyes, the Slayer groaned. She had been struggling to reach the former god king for the last six weeks, but as Fred had told her, communication with Illyria was not exactly something the scientist could rush. In the Texan's exact words, "She doesn't always want to talk – sometimes I think it's actually impossible, but most of the time, I think she's just being grumpy."

Well, Faith had to hand it to her. Illyria had impeccable timing. Of course she would choose this morning to call, when the Slayer had been out taking down a new nest of vampires until nearly four. Her skin was covered in more bruises than bargain produce at the end of the week, and her skull was still ringing from being clocked over the head by a vamp trying to sneak up on her.

"You're the worst, Blue, you know that?" she grumbled as she reached for her laptop lying on the bed beside her. Given the high likelihood that she would forget this conversation later, she really ought to take notes. "I've been calling for over a month. I mean, I know a lady should play hard to get, but I thought you and I were past that point."

"Hmm. You are not amusing when you are tired."

"And you're not amusing when you go AWOL for months."

"I was reflecting," said Illyria coldly.

Faith rolled her eyes at the ceiling. "Reflecting on what? How to grow your hair emerald instead of cobalt?"

"The Burkle will not be sleeping for much longer," the god king cautioned. "There is not much time. So if you're awake enough to stop sniping . . . You have questions?"

"Yeah." The Slayer opened a blank document on her computer. "Do you know anything about a dimension called Purgatory?"

"The name itself is unfamiliar to me, but that may be meaningless. All the old places have been given different names now. What sort of place is this Purgatory?"

"I'm not sure," Faith admitted. "All I know is that it's where the souls of monsters go when they die. But it isn't really the place itself that concerns me. It's a group of creatures that used to live in the place."

"Oh?" Illyria's tone was arch. "A group of monsters? Don't you have libraries for that?"

The Slayer grit her teeth. She had forgotten how talking to the Bluebird could be worse than pulling teeth. "They're not my usual brand of monsters. They might be yours, though. How well do you know the other Old Ones?"

"There were many of us, and there were many kinds of us," replied the god king. "Get to the point. Give me specifics."

"Leviathans, Blue."

Illyria inhaled sharply. "Oh, _them_."

" _Them_? You knew them?"

"I knew everyone," snapped Illyria. "I _know_ everyone."

Faith pressed her advantage. "What can you tell me about them?"

"Hmm," came the contemplative response. "Didn't think much of them at first. It's one thing to be forced into the garb of a mud monkey. It's another entirely to choose to resemble one. But that, I suppose, was their strategy. To trick their betters into believing they were harmless, to convince the humans into thinking they were helpful. While in reality . . ."

"Yes?"

"In reality their hunger could swallow the world."

Not quite sure if she understood, the Slayer said, "You mean their hunger for ambition?"

"No, I mean their literal hunger. They ate anything and everything. Preferably sentient beings. If I recall correctly, humans were their favorite snack."

"Great. So basically what you're telling me is that these creatures can be anywhere and they like to pop people like Tic Tacs?"

A pause ensued while Illyria rifled through Fred's memories to define what exactly Tic Tacs might be. "Ahh. An apt description."

"You don't happen to know how to kill them by any chance, do you?"

"I never bothered trying. They were less than pests when I knew them. Their time only overlapped mine for a short while before I was confined to that . . . that hole."

The Slayer knew better than to ask further questions. Illyria despised discussing her imprisonment in the Deeper Well. Instead, Faith waited in silence for the Old One to recover her train of thought.

"If I remember more, I will tell the Burkle," said the ancient demon, uncharacteristically helpful. "The Leviathans always had an air of oily filth about them. Fishy, somehow. Again, also in the literal sense of the word."

"Thanks, Blue."

"After all, if allowed to grow unchecked, even pests can become a problem. How did they escape their cage in the first place?"

Faith mumbled something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Castiel."

"Castiel?" The god king was simultaneously surprised and amused. "The angel who trailed at the heels of Michael's sword?" She clucked her tongue against her front teeth. "Quite a loud song for such a small bird."

"Why do you still call him that?" queried the Slayer. "That . . . The whole apocalypse angel-vessel thing is years in the past now."

"Mmm." The noise was skeptical. "Believe that, if it gives you comfort."

And on that disturbing note, Illyria hung up. Faith dropped her phone into her lap and closed her computer. Lying back down, she rolled onto her side and stared at the closed bedroom door. She would need to call Dean today to pass all this along. But first, she was going back to sleep.

* * *

**August 17th, 2012, Cleveland, Ohio, 9:58 p.m.**

The credits were rolling on Faith's second episode of yet another crime procedural when the call came in. She dropped her chopsticks into their cardboard take-out container. Wiping her mouth on a crumpled-up napkin, she swallowed her mouthful of drunken noodles before she reached for her phone. "Hello?"

"You patrolling?"

Faith downed a swig from the bottle of PBR sitting on the coffee table beside her feet. "No. I got the night off for good behavior," she simplified the hour and a half discussion on Slayer scheduling that had occupied the earlier part of her evening. "Where're you and Sam tonight?"

"Dearborn, Michigan." The hunter yawned loudly. "You doing anything exciting?"

She suppressed the urge to yawn in response. "If eating Thai and watching Law and Order re-runs counts as exciting, then sure."

"You have terrible taste in television," Dean commented.

The Slayer had an easy retort at the ready. "Says the man who's got a crush on Doctor Sexy."

"I do not have a crush on him. He's just . . . impressively sexy," he said defensively.

Faith laughed. "Sure, I'll pretend that's convincing. So, what's up?"she asked, for a moment forgetting that she had called him two nights before. "Not that I don't enjoy a midnight call, but was there something on your mind?"

"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Sorry I didn't pick up the other day. Sam and I kinda got tangled up with Osiris."

Now that was unexpected. "Osiris? The Egyptian god of death – _that_ Osiris?"

"Yup," he agreed.

"Damn." The Slayer let out a low whistle. "Now my week really seems boring."

"Ha." Dean snorted. "Don't get that excited. It was more of a nightmare than anything else. You remember how truth-telling's a big part of that whole Book of the Dead crap?"

"Ye-es," said Faith slowly.

"Got a little touch and go for a minute there, but don't worry. I'm still keeping my cards close to my chest."

It didn't take much to guess what cards he was referring to. Amy Pond. "That's good."

"Mmhmm. Why'd you call the other day, anyway?"

Faith gave him a quick rundown on her conversation with Illyria. "Unfortunately," she concluded, "doesn't seem like she had much to say on how to kill them."

"Which is the thing we really need to know." Dean exhaled. "I don't like it. Not knowing how to kill 'em. It's like –"

"Like our hands are tied," the Slayer finished for him.

"More or less." The man waited a beat and then changed the subject. "Sam's out seeing some highfalutin' arthouse flick. He invited me along, but I'd rather have my fingernails pulled off by that evil Mrs. Claus wannabe we met a few years back. Ain't got jack to work on case wise, there's not much on TV . . ."

Grinning, Faith turned the volume down on her television and pressed her phone closer to her ear. She could tell where this was headed. "You lookin' for a distraction?"

"That depends," Dean countered in a slow drawl. "You in the mood to be distracting?"

* * *

**September 10th, 2012, Cleveland, Ohio, 3:15 p.m.**

"Miss Viglione?"

Becka glanced up from the spreadsheet open on her desktop. "What is it, Abigail?" she asked the newest secretarial hire at her engineering firm.

The angular redhead in a pair of too-tall heels and a neatly tailored pencil skirt pointed towards the black phone sitting on Becka's heavy oaken desk. "There's a call for you. Came in on the main office line. I patched it through."

"Thanks," said the brunette engineer, and she picked up the receiver. "Hi, you've reached Rebecka Viglione at E. L. Robinson. How can I help you?"

"Hey, Becks."

The Slayer nearly dropped the phone in surprise. " _Sam_?" she hissed into the mouthpiece. "You're calling me at work? What, is the sky falling or something?"

"Cool it, Chicken Little," barked a second voice. "We've got a project for you."

Becka recovered her equilibrium. "Hi, Dean. Nice to hear from you. What's the project?"

"Two things," continued the hunter in a clipped tone. "Check the news. And have Faith give us a call on a secure line. New number: seven eight five, five five five, zero one two eight."

Mildly confused, the Slayer pointed out, "Why don't you call her yourself? She's in San Francisco this week."

"It's better this way," Sam cut in before his brother could say something antagonistic. "Trust us. You'll see when you watch the news."

"Just have her call me, okay?" Dean's irritation was beginning to mount.

"Okay. Everything alright in Winchester-land?"

The only response she got was a terse, "Check the news," and then the Winchesters ended the call.

What in the seven hells had that been about? Becka stared at her spreadsheets without really seeing them for a minute and a half, and then she launched a new SearchTheWeb hunt while dialing Faith.

"Hey," the older woman answered on the fourth ring. "Keep it quick. Kinda got my hands full at the moment."

"Holy sh-t," Becka breathed as she pulled up CNN on her computer. "Faith, have you been watching the TV in the last couple of days?"

Something roared in the background of the call. "No time," Faith said hurriedly. "Infestation of Cantonese Fook Beasts near the Golden Gate Bridge. Hell of a mess."

"Faith!" came the faint shout from a voice that sound suspiciously like Buffy.

"Becks, if there's an emergency, tell me now."

"Hop on CNN as soon as you finish with your Fook Beast. And Dean wants you to call him. New number. I'll text it to you."

"Great. Thanks. Gotta run."

The brunette Slayer listened to the dial tone and slowly replaced the phone receiver into its cradle, still gazing at her computer, where two very familiar faces were holding up a bank.

"SERIAL KILLER BROTHERS STRIKE AGAIN IN WISCONSIN," read the news ticker as it crawled across the screen. "THIRD HIT THIS WEEK - CAN THE FEDS CATCH THE WINCHESTERS?"

"She's not gonna like this," Becka muttered to herself, unable to tear her eyes away from the bank robbery. "Not gonna like this at all."

* * *

**September 10th, 2012, Pueblo, Colorado, 6:30 p.m.**

When the call came in from an untraceable number, Dean answered it, his fingers crossed that it would be her. She didn't disappoint, snarling out her questions without giving him a chance to say hello.

"What the hell is going on? And I know better than to think those goons are you and Jolly Green. You two've got better sense than that. Those Leviathans?"

The hunter's hands relaxed around the steering wheel of the Pontiac Acadian that he had picked up at Frank's. Life got easier when he didn't have to convince everyone that he wasn't actually a serial killer.

"Hole in one," he confirmed, tapping at his phone screen and setting the call to speaker. "Apparently they got our hair out of some shower drain . . . and now they're gang-banging their way around the country. We've sky-rocketed to number two on the FBI's Most Wanted List."

"FBI's finally developing some taste, then. How'd you figure all this out?"

"Bobby's got one of the slimy suckers out in Whitefish. He's asking him questions."

Faith snorted. "Nice euphemism, Sam. Your source tell you anything else interesting?"

"Nah. But we know where they're headed next." The younger hunter filled her in on the Leviathans' pattern. "They're going to all the places Dean and I first went when we were looking for Dad. Jericho, Blackwater Ridge, Manitoc, St. Louis . . . next up's Ankeny in Iowa."

"We still don't have a good way to kill the damn things," griped Dean, "but Bobby's been, uh, experimenting -"

"I'm sure he has," Faith said in an undertone.

"Yeah." The hunter couldn't help but snicker. "Well, turns out that decapitating the bastards slows 'em down for a bit. Doesn't kill them, but it slows them down."

"Let me guess," ventured the Slayer contemplatively. "It's even better if you put miles between the bodies and the heads?"

"That's what we're thinking, too," concurred Sam. "Haven't tried it out just yet, though."

"So you're headed to Iowa to cut the heads off of your evil twins?" Dean could hear her smiling.

He exchanged amused glances with his brother and then returned his eyes to the road. "Pretty much."

The Slayer chuckled. "Can a girl tag along?"

"The more the merrier. If you can fly into Des Moines, we'll pick you up first thing in the morning. Right, Sam?"

"Hang on," Sam said slowly. "Dean, they just released the video from the diner in St. Louis on CNN."

"Damnit, Connor's had the best burgers in all of Missouri. Now I'm never gonna be able to go back in."

"There's something else." Sam was not interested in his brother's burger woes. "Dean, it wasn't just the two of them back in Connor's. They had help. Pull over."

" _What_?" said Faith and Dean in unison.

"Pull over," Sam repeated, more firmly. "You need to watch this, Dean. Faith, if you've got Internet, you should check the video out, too."

Grumbling all the while, the older hunter zig-zagged his way across two lanes and brought the Acadian to a shuddering halt on the highway shoulder. "This had better be good," he warned his brother.

Sam shushed him. "Just watch."

The video itself was of poor quality, and the audio track had not been included with it, but Dean didn't need sound to realize what had thrown Sam into a hissy fit. Sure enough, there was his brother's doppelgänger mowing down booths of diner patrons with a semi-automatic. And there was the creature that looked like him but wasn't him, filming the whole thing while he massacred his half of the restaurant.

But there was someone else, too. Someone he recognized in a gut-wrenching split second. A thin woman, dressed all in black, her brown eyes cold, her scarlet-lipped smile feral. As the thirty second clip rushed to its end, the woman wrapped her arms around the Dean-that-wasn't-Dean, and the two creatures kissed.

A new caption spilled its way across the bottom of the video. BUCK AND CLYDE FIND THEIR BONNIE: MYSTERY WOMAN JOINS WINCHESTER MURDER SPREE.

"Frak," Dean swore.

" _Frak_ ," whispered the Slayer a half-second later. "I found the video."

"Looks like we're not the only ones whose hair the Leviathans got ahold of." Dean ran a hand across his face, grateful that Sam had pushed him into stopping the car. "You probably want to forget about the plane idea. They'll have you identified in a couple of hours, tops."

She would not be dissuaded. "I can charter a private, meet you in Des Moines still."

"You can afford that?" wondered Sam incredulously.

"Not me," Faith scoffed. "Buffy's super-rich boyfriend can, though. And since I just saved his scrawny ass from getting chomped on by a Fook Beast, he owes me one."

"Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, these guys are playing hardball."

Dean resisted the urge to smack his stupid little brother upside the head. Challenging the Slayer only made her more committed to risky ideas, not less. Sam knew that.

"They're stealing my face, Samantha. Not exactly something a girl can forgive. Plus, she's doing my eyeliner all wrong. I'll see you in Iowa." Faith hung up, leaving the two brothers alone with silence.

"You did that on purpose," Dean accused, shifting the ancient Pontiac back into drive and carefully getting back onto the highway. "You knew she'd take the bait and refuse to back down."

Sam shrugged. "Three of them, three of us. Seems like more of a fair fight. And come on, Dean. Do you know anyone who's as good as decapitating things as Faith is?"

Shaking his head, the hunter admitted, "No."

"It'll be better with her. Trust me."

"You better be right," grumbled his brother with a sharp warning glance. "Cause if this backfires, it's not just your ass or mine on the line – it's all three of ours. So you'd better be right about this."


	118. Cops and Robbers, pt 2

* * *

She was waiting on the curb when the Pontiac pulled up outside the Des Moines airport sixteen hours later. Sam didn't think he'd ever seen the Slayer actively trying to blend in before. She had traded in her trademark leather and lipstick for faded blue jeans and a tattered hoodie with a dark green John Deere cap tugged down over her face. Faith tossed her backpack into the rear seat and slid in afterwards. "Morning, boys. You bring me coffee?"

"Better than that." Sam swiveled in his seat as Dean peeled away from the curb. "We got coffee – black – _and_ doughnuts." He passed the cardboard donut box over into the backseat.

Faith snatched the pastries out of his hands. "G-d, whichever one of you thought of this, I love you," she commented, grabbing up a jelly and stuffing it into her mouth. "I could eat a hippo."

The younger hunter turned away from the stomach-churning sight of Faith devouring the jelly-filled doughnut. Strawberry jam dripped down the edges of her mouth, staining her chin a disturbingly blood-like crimson. "I pity the hippo," he murmured in an undertone.

In retaliation, Faith shoved the back of his seat. Since this was a General Motors and not the Chevy, she didn't hold back when she rammed her knee into the upholstery.

"Hey! What was that for?"

"I heard that."

Dean glanced quickly over his shoulder, first at Faith and then at his brother. "Do I need to separate you two?"

"No," said Faith unconvincingly as a glob of scarlet jam dropped from her chin onto her leg. The Slayer swallowed thickly. "I'm good."

"Whatever," Sam scoffed, but the corners of his mouth quirked upwards in a smile. "Pass me another sprinkled one?"

"You got it, Paul Bunyan. Coffee?"

"Coffee."

The trade of snacks and beverages was made. Shaking his head, Dean left the airport traffic circle and merged onto the highway. Once he had slipped across two more lanes, he said, "We got another chocola –"

"Here." The pastry appeared by his shoulder before he could even finish speaking. "What's the plan?" Faith asked, starting in on her second jelly donut.

"Go to Ankeny, find the Leviathans, and help them realize their childhood dream of being in two places at once," Sam informed her.

As she saluted him with her donut, Faith swiped a crimson streak of jelly across her nose. "Now, that," she declared, rubbing at the jam, "is what I call a good plan."

* * *

And indeed, the plan seemed foolproof. Locate the Impala, sneak up on the Leviathans, nip in for some quick beheading action, then get the hell out. At first, everything had worked out fine They passed the Leviathan's Chevy as they dragged main. Parking the Pontiac on a side street, they began stealthily creeping up on the imposter Impala from the rear. All was going according to schedule.

But then the two police cruisers had swerved in, sirens blaring, and the next thing Faith knew, she was facedown on the concrete with blood gushing from her nose and a heavy policeman's boot stamped firmly down into the small of her back while Sam made conciliatory arguments and Dean clamored for his one phone call.

"Cuff 'em," growled the sandy-haired sheriff, pressing his boot down even harder onto the Slayer's spine.

"Let go," insisted Faith as a pair of sweaty hands wrestled her arms into a pair of cold handcuffs. After the steel clinked shut, the boot was removed, and the same sweaty hands jerked her up to her feet. She tossed her head and blinked furiously. Her entire face stung like hell.

The sheriff met her glower unfazed. "Put all three of them in the car."

When they reached the station, the three deputies dragged Sam off to one of the interrogation rooms and shoved Faith and Dean into separate cells. As the steel door clanged and the lock clicked, the Slayer slumped onto the floor in the corner furthest from the door. She cradled her still-oozing nose between her chained wrists.

"I take it back," she moaned softly. "This was not a good plan."

Dean hardly seemed to hear her, too preoccupied with pacing the walls. "Hey!" he called out. "Don't I get my phone call?"

The Slayer blearily wondered who he could be wanting to call and then remembered that he had been talking to Bobby right before they got themselves popped.

"Hey!" The hunter raised his voice a few more decibels. "I need my phone call!"

"Ow," Faith muttered as she ducked her head down enough for her hands to reach her nose. She gave the cartilage an experimental wiggle. "Yeah. Ow."

"Faith?" Dean was paying attention now, hovering at the edge of his cell closest to hers.

"I'm fine." The Slayer lifted her head from her knees. "How bad does it look?"

"Like it's broken."

Another tentative wiggle. "I think it's okay. You gonna call Bobby?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Good plan." She tilted her head back and yelled, "Hey! We need our damn phone calls!" Faith dropped the volume down to a half-whispered babbling. "And our Miranda rights. But I'm holding onto that for when we call the lawyers. I'm pretty sure Wolfram and Hart would take me back as a client."

The hunter shook his head. "We don't get out of here before the Leviathans show up, and we won't need lawyers. No point in putting kibbles'n'bits on the stand."

"That's enough." Frowning, the sheriff rounded the corner. "Stop your caterwauling."

"Hey," Dean persisted, "I have a right to my phone call."

The man scoffed. "A right? You killed how many people last couple days, and you want me to harp on your rights? You got some nerve."

From her cell, the Slayer snorted.

"And you – " he pivoted to stare at the woman, half-hidden in shadow at the back of her cell. "I've read all about you. Faith Lehane, that it? I know what you did to that man in Sunnydale."

Faith bared her teeth in a silent snarl made gruesome by the dried blood and strawberry jam staining the lower half of her face. "You don't know jack sh-t," she hissed, playing up the psychotic killer aspect. If it made Dean seem more reasonable by comparison, it would be worth it. Her credibility was probably far down in the toilet, anyway.

The sheriff turned away from her, back to Dean. He raised a single eyebrow. "Company you keep, and you want me to give you a damn phone?"

"I didn't – please," Dean begged the older man to listen. "Just give me one – one phone call."

Gazing into the man's earnest face, the sheriff sighed. "Fine."

She really had to learn how to be nice to cops, Faith reflected sourly. She tended to exist in one of two modes when it came to police: avoidant or confrontational. She had got to learn how to manage people the way that Sam did. He could soothe. Faith had never been any good at soothing. Mouthing off, now, that she was good at. Which was how she had ended up with this mess all over her nose and chin in the first place.

As the sheriff unclipped the phone from his belt, two of his deputies rounded the corner. The first one, tall and freckled, complained, "Boss, I don't think we should let 'em talk to each other like this. Let us take the girl. We'll put her in the back interrogation room. The FBI called – they don't want any of them in the same room."

Sighing for a second time, the sheriff passed his keys over. The two deputies unlocked the cell and then walked in. With two of them and the sheriff and Dean behind bars on the other side of the hallway, there was nothing Faith could do. It wasn't worth trying to escape. She scooted further back into the corner of the cell until her spine was pressed solidly against the cement blocks. Still, she had to let the deputies drag her upwards.

Dean crowded against the bars of his cell. "Faith – "

"Dean – "

"Cut it out, lovebirds," growled the taller deputy, pinioning the Slayer's elbow against her side and shoving her into the hallway. She took a half-step forward, her features set with grim determination.

"Faith – " repeated the hunter warningly from low in his throat.

She looked up from the tile beneath her shoes, and for half a heartbeat, their eyes locked. Then the deputies hustled her past him and out of sight. They frog-marched Faith down along the back hallway. As they passed a steel door with a small window in the center, she unsuccessfully dragged her heels, hoping to catch a brief view of Sam.

"Keep moving," snapped the freckled deputy, giving her a hard shove past the hunter's interrogation room. He forced her another fifteen feet along the corridor and then pushed her through an open steel door into a small, windowless room barely eight feet by ten feet. A single black video camera was nailed to the ceiling in the far corner.

"Get in there," snarled the other deputy, the one holding her arm, and he kicked her in the small of the back. Faith stumbled forwards and twisted to the side to avoid smashing her face into the steel table locked down to the concrete floor. She landed on her knees instead. The door to the interrogation room slammed closed, and the key turned ominously in the lock.

Hopping back up to her feet, Faith spun around in time to see the freckled deputy smirking as his form wavered and shifted. His entire body blurred, like a wave passing through a reflection on the surface of a pond, until it finally solidified into a familiar face. One that Faith had only seen straight on once before, when she was trying to pound the living daylights out of it.

"God, I'm hot," she said with a whistle of admiration, bringing her manacled hands up into a guard position at the level of her chest.

The Leviathan wearing Faith's body laughed and leaned back against the locked door. "See, this is why I threatened to bash the other two's heads in if they didn't let me be you. You're fun. Sure you're a stone-hearted bitch who'll spread her legs for any trucker with a rash, but at least you're not having constant Satan-vision or drowning under the guilt of not saving the world enough. You do what you want. You kill who you want.

"For example," she grinned, "Two months ago, you murdered a child, and you didn't even feel it. Just didn't care. After all, what's one more body along the blood-strewn path you've left behind you? Gotta admit, I'm almost impressed."

Faith rolled her eyes. As taunting went, this couldn't even raise the hair on her arms. A Leviathan, no matter how in a rush to eat her it might be, simply couldn't compare to Angelus's cool breath on the back of her neck as he promised unspeakable things. There were only so many times you could panic before panicking lost its power.

Her grin shifting into an irritated frown, the monster kept speaking, "But the one thing I don't get - why are you so hung up on these sad sack hunters? You're miles out of their league. Unless the sex with short bus really is that great . . ."

"You gonna eat me, or are you just gonna talk me to death?" Faith twisted her wrists, slipping her thumbs down into the loose edges of her cuffs and made fists around the edges of the steel. She gave a cold-eyed smile. "Cuz, honestly, I've never been big on foreplay."

* * *

Sam had been sitting chained to that steel interrogation table for the last forty-five minutes, panic brewing in the pit of his stomach. The room was quiet, disturbingly quiet, and the only noise beyond the sound of his breathing was the whispered taunts of the Devil ringing inside his ears. When at last the door creaked open and his brother stepped in, relief swept over him.

"Dean!" He held out his hands to be freed.

Dean tilted his head to the side and smiled, far too cheerfully. Chills ran down Sam's back. "I'm not your brother," said the Leviathan. "But I am Dean adjacent."

The hunter jerked back in his seat, as far away from the Leviathan as he could possibly make himself. Amused, the monster came and sat on the edge of the table, bracing his elbow on his leg in a relaxed posture that was uniquely Dean. Leaning forwards, he announced, "I just want to let you know how much I've really grown to hate you and your brother since we've been wearing you.

"I just don't get it," he complained. "You could be anything. You're strong, you're unihibited. You're smart enough, believe it or not. But you're so caught up in being good and taking care of each other."

"What do you care?" demanded Sam, his eyes flashing between the Leviathan and the locked door. He considered his chances, and realized they were dismal.

Rising from the table, Dean adjacent paced halfway around the room. "Because it pisses me off! You're wasting a perfectly good opportunity to subjugate the weak."

He exhaled and then spun on his heels, slamming his palms down onto the table and leaning across it to smile at Sam. "Here's the deal. Dean . . . well," he laughed, "He thinks you're nutballs. He thinks you're off your game."

Sam pursed his lips. "You planning on killing me anytime soon, or is this some sort of 'play with your food' bull?"

"All right, all right." The Leviathan held his hands up in a fake gesture of innocence and chuckled a second time. "You know, I guess that's why Dean never told you that he and that Slayer whore of his killed your precious Amy and her little son."

The bottom dropped out of Sam's stomach. All he could do was to stare at the Leviathan in horror and alarm. Somewhere deep between his ears, Lucifer cackled.

"There it is!" Dean adjacent clapped his hands. "The look on your face. That is priceless! Ha! That's what I've been waiting for. Now, I can eat you." He took a menacing step towards Sam and lowered his voice to a confidential tone. "You see, I like my meat a little bitter."

Clang! The door to the interrogation room swung open again, and Sam's brother – the real one this time – sprinted through it. He had an axe in one hand and a plastic bucket full of liquid in the other, which he flung at the Leviathan. Dean adjacent screamed in agony as the skin on his arms erupted in steaming black boils. Before he could do more than scream, Dean hewed off the creature's head in a single two-handed stroke.

Blood splatter reaching past his elbows, he looked up at his little brother. "Well, that felt good. You okay?"

His throat dry, Sam nodded, unable to speak.

"Good. You sit tight. Sheriff's right behind me - he's gonna unlock your cuffs. I've gotta find Faith."

Frozen, the hunter watched as his bloodstained brother charged out of the room as quickly as he had come in, gone long before Sam could even find his voice.

* * *

The Leviathan wearing Faith's face smirked, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "And here I was trying to be considerate. You've got a whole lot of trauma bouncing around this head of yours. Almost enough to make a girl crazy. Oh, wait. I forgot. You've been pathologically insane since you tried to murder that john of your mother's. And now, look at you . . . like mother like daughter. Hooking must just be in your genes."

"Eat me. Please." The Slayer dropped her arms down to her sides. "Anything's better than the psychobabble. Just get on with it."

"If you insist." The monster rushed at her, but Faith had been expecting this.

She watched the Leviathan approach with dead eyes. The woman allowed it to crash into her. As she toppled backwards, Faith brought her knee up and hooked her ankle around the back of the monster's leg. With a jerk and a twist, she tugged the creature down with her. The two fell down onto the concrete floor. Faith landed on the bottom, the Leviathan's claws scrabbling at her face as the creature shifted another time, transforming its visage from Faith's to a gaping, shark-like mouth with dagger-sized teeth.

After scratching their way down the Slayer's cheeks, the monster's hands closed around Faith's throat. The Slayer pushed her cuffed hands upwards, pressing her wrists against each other to slide through the thin space between the creature's arms. She pushed ineffectually at its chest.

"Try harder," laughed the Leviathan. "Come on, you can do better."

"You're right," gasped Faith, twisting her neck sharply to the right and just barely managing to avoid the monstrous teeth. "I can."

She snapped her wrists open, slamming the six inch steel chain between her cuffs upwards against the Leviathan's neck. At the same time, Faith planted her boots firmly against the floor, trapping the monster's body between her knees, and gave her hips a sharp wrench, flipping them over so that the Slayer was now on top.

Faith continued to force her chain forwards until the edge of the steel was slowly slicing through the Leviathan's throat. Her arms ached, but she shoved her arms down against the concrete. Crimson arterial blood sprayed up into her face as she obliterated the carotid arteries. The chain worked its way through the soft tissues with a ragged, wet, sucking sound. When she reached bone, there was a moment's hang up, but Faith just gritted her teeth and pressed harder.

Finally, the head rolled off the Leviathan's body, dropping the last three inches to the floor with an anticlimactic thunk. Faith rocked back onto her knees. Her entire front was drenched in blood, and she could taste warm salt where the spray had splashed into her mouth and nose.

Keys jingled in the door. Wild-eyed, the Slayer leapt to her feet and whirled to face the newcomer. One down. Two to go. She raised her manacled hands in front of her face, heedless of the blood that continued to drip steadily down from the handcuffs.

The door opened. It was Dean, a large white bottle of industrial cleaner in one hand and an axe still wet with cranberry blood in the other hand. He jerked to a halt at the sight of the bloodbath that awaited him. "Faith?"

"Dean or not Dean?" demanded the Slayer. She took a wary step around the edge of the room, putting the steel table between them.

"Dean."

"Prove it."

"You ate four and a half donuts in the car this morning."

The Slayer relaxed, and her shoulders slackened. "Okay."

He did not release his grip on the axe handle. "Now your turn."

"What?" Her eyes widened in surprise.

"You prove it."

She stared at him in frank disbelief. "If I was a Leviathan, I would've eaten me, not decapitated me. God, Dean. Use your head."

"All right. Fine, fine." The hunter lowered the axe and took a further step into the room. "Are you okay?"

Faith shifted her weight from side to side, and her shoes squelched in the puddle of blood seeping out from the headless Leviathan. "Bit sticky."

Deciding not to comment on that, Dean gazed at the decapitated head. "You did that with the handcuffs?" he guessed.

The Slayer nodded tersely. As she did so, a mangled glob of skin and muscle loosened from her hair and plummeted to the floor. Dean winced. Faith glanced down at the front of her shirt. "I need a shower."

"Yeah. That's, uh, probably a good idea. You kinda look like the girl from the Grudge . . . just a little more red."

"You have the key?" Faith gestured with her still-dripping hands.

"The sheriff's got it. He should be along in a second, soon as he releases Sam."

"Right." She had momentarily forgotten about the younger Winchester. "How is he?"

Dean cracked a wan smile. "Cleaner than you or me, although that's not exactly a tough competition to win right now."

"And the other two Leviathans?"

"Heads currently divorced from the rest of 'em."

"I guess that's something." The Slayer shuffled her feet, and more squelching ensued. "What's with the soap?" She nodded towards the jug of industrial cleaner.

Grateful for something else to talk about, Dean quickly informed her, "Borax. Bobby had a breakthrough. Burns the heck outta Leviathans."

"Good to know."

"Dean, are you – " Sam and the sheriff froze in the doorway, taking in the dead Leviathan and the gore-encrusted Slayer.

"Mother of God," breathed the sheriff.

Faith shrugged, her handcuffs rattling. "No mothers. No God. Just me. Keys?"

The sheriff stared at her in mute horror. Faith was vaguely aware that Dean's Grudge comparison hadn't been too far off. "They bleed more when you do it slow," she explained self-consciously. "Now can you get me out of these? I'm not gonna bite."

"I've got it." Dean set his axe down on the table and retrieved the keys from the petrified sheriff. He walked over to the Slayer, careful not to get blood on the soles of his boots, and unlocked the cuffs. He had difficulty sliding the key into the keyhole due to all the blood pooling there.

"You got a shower here?" he called back over his shoulder.

"Yes. In the - in the locker room."

"I can't walk out there," said Faith as she dropped the handcuffs onto the Leviathan's corpse. She gingerly touched her wrists, which were raw and chafed. "Leave a trail of bloody me-sized footprints headed away from my dead body? I don't think so."

Without waiting for the others to respond, she toed off her boots and unbuckled her belt. After dropping her jeans, she ripped her destroyed t-shirt off from over her head. Faith wiped the worst of the mess off of her face and arms with the inside of the T-shirt and stepped away from the pile of bloodied clothing. Now wearing only her socks, underwear, and bra, Faith walked past the men.

On her way, she snagged the revolver out of the waistband of Dean's jeans. "Just in case," she answered his questioning look. "You can bag those and burn them." She nodded back at her abandoned clothes. "Y'all got this?" Not bothering to hear their answer, Faith left.

"Look, I believed you," said the sheriff to the hunters after the Slayer had disappeared from view. "But this . . . "

Dean patted the man on the shoulder. "We did what we had to. You know that. Just tell the Feds when that get here that your prisoners went wild and killed your deputies in a shoot-out."

"And the heads?" asked the sheriff weakly.

"We'll take 'em. Toss 'em in a river. Thanks for the help."

"They . . . They ate my deputies."

"Yeah. Sorry about that." Dean said awkwardly. He realized the timing for his next question was not great, but he had to ask anyway. "You got any clothes laying around that my friend can borrow until we get back to our car?"

* * *

**September 13th, 2012, Lousiville, Nebraska, 7:30 p.m.**

"That's the last one," announced Sam as he tossed the final cardboard box into the Platte River. Standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother, he watched as the Leviathan head, now packaged courtesy of the USPS Priority Flat Rate service and half a roll of duct tape, slowly sank beneath the murky surface of the river.

"Who was that?"

"You, I think."

"Mmm." Dean grinned. "So now I'm sleeping with the fishes." He started heading back along the dirt access road towards the Acadian, where they had left Faith napping in the back seat. When he realized his brother was not walking behind him, he asked, "You coming?"

Sam hung back. "I . . . I dunno, dude." He exhaled loudly. "I dunno."

Dean stopped and turned. Something was off. For a half second, he had to reassure himself that it wasn't his actual brother's head they had just thrown in the river. "Sam?"

"I guess . . . I knew you kept Faith's secrets. And I know there's stuff that you don't tell me. I just didn't think you'd do something like this."

"Something like what?" the older man said gruffly.

"I know about Amy."

The other shoe finally dropped. In an odd way, Dean almost felt relieved. "Sammy – "

His brother shook his head. "Shut up. I don't want to hear it. I don't - I can't trust you, man."

Dean's eyes grew steely. "Like I can trust you?" he scoffed. "When you go running off making deals with monsters, just as long as they're pretty? That ring any Ruby-shaped bells for you, Sam? When're you gonna learn? And were you ever gonna tell me?"

"I can't . . . I can't friggin believe this." The younger hunter looked away. "I . . . I'm gonna go."

" _What_?"

"I can't trust you, Dean!" Sam paused, his chest heaving. He ran a hand through his hair and inhaled. Finally, he said, "I think for a while we're better off on our own."

"At least let me give you a ride to -"

"No. I'm - I'm good." Having no desire to hear whatever it was his brother had to say, Sam spun on his heel and headed to the Acadian. He opened the shotgun door, retrieved his gear and laptop bag, and started walking down the access road towards the highway. Dean watched his brother leave until he dwindled to speck on the horizon, and then he looked down into the waters of the Platte rushing past.

Five minutes passed while he stared at the river, and then a small voice spoke at his left shoulder. "Hey."

He glanced at the Slayer out of the corner of his eye. "Hey. Thought you were asleep."

Rubbing at her bandaged wrists, Faith said, "Woke up when Sam slammed the door. What happened?"

Dean sucked his teeth. "He found out. About Bozeman."

"Oh." Her face fell. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Dean looked back to the Platte. "He was gonna find out sooner or later. Too bad it wasn't later."

Faith nudged him with her elbow. "You okay?'

"Yeah." He was lying, and they both knew it. "Come on," he said after a brief silence. "We'd better put some more distance between us and Iowa."

"You wanna come to California?" she offered.

The hunter contemplated the idea. "Huh. You think Buffy and her boy toy'll mind if I crash for a day or two? I . . . I could use a break."

"Should be fine. Just warning you, though. He's got a movie theater in his basement."

"Sold." Dean turned away from the river, staring down the road in the direction that Sam had gone.

"He'll come around." Faith bumped her hip into his. "Sam's your brother. He won't be mad forever."

"I know." He cleared his throat. "California?"

"California."

With one last exhale, Dean relinquished the fragile hope that his brother would return and began striding towards the Pontiac. "Okay. Let's go."


	119. From Romania With Love

Spoilers for SPN episodes 7x08-7x13. Spoilers as well for all of BtVS and Angel: the Series.

* * *

**October 6th, 2012, Portland, Maine, 2:27 p.m.**

"Why won't you come with me to Vegas?"

Faith glanced at the rain-soaked streets visible through the windshield of her latest Watcher's council rental, a slate gray Subaru. "Because I have a case in Maine," she explained with more patience than she felt. "Skerloth demon infestation in Portland. You can handle a week of drunken debauchery without me. Besides, Sam enjoys strip clubs more than I do."

The hunter laughed shortly into the phone. "You sure about that?" he asked petulantly.

"Good point," mused Faith as she began easing the Subaru into a compact-sized parking space. Dean and his brother had only reconciled a week ago, and it seemed as though everyone's feelings were more than a little raw. "Okay, I take it back. I prolly like strip clubs about as much as your brother does."

"We could delay Vegas . . ." suggested the man lamely.

Having completed a perfectly straight parking job, the Slayer withdrew her keys from the ignition. "No. You should go." She unbuckled her seatbelt. "Tip the strippers, go home with some waitress, don't forget to –"

"Wear a condom," Dean finished the sentence for her. "I know, I know. Thanks, coach."

Although she knew he couldn't see it, Faith beamed as she tucked the phone between her ear and her shoulder. Unlocking the door, she slipped into the tiny space between her car and the adjacent vehicle. "You're welcome. No one likes the clap."

"Did I ever tell you about the time a witch gave Sam the clap?" Dean mused aloud.

"You mean like 'gave' as in _gave_?"

"Not by the usual methods. With magic."

Faith's grin widened. This sounded like a story to be remembered. "Go on . . . "

* * *

**October 10th, 2012, Las Vegas, Nevada, 7:33 a.m.**

When Dean woke and found that his nightmare had not, in fact, been a nightmare, his first course of action was to check the motel room for hex bags. The second step of his emergency plan was to call Faith. As soon as she picked up the phone, he began babbling, "Mayday. Mayday. Earth to Slayer, come in Slayer. Major crisis."

"Slayer, here," yawned the Slayer in question. Fabric rustled on her end of the line. "What's wrong?"

There was no good way to tell this, so Dean settled for a weak lead-in, "You know how Vegas is like the land of twenty-four hour marriages?"

"You didn't –" scoffed Faith, sounding a fraction more awake.

"Not me." The hunter paused in tossing the room to stare at his phone in disgust. "God, no. Sam."

" _Sam_?!" Ah. There she was. The Slayer, fully awake at last.

Dean inhaled and then dropped the bomb. "He married Becky."

Now the Slayer really lost her sh-t. "BECKY? As in Dean-slash-Sam fanfiction writer Becky?"

"Yes!" Of all the associations for her to have with that name, why did it have to be that one?

"What the ever-loving frak?"

The hunter's babbling devolved into full-on word vomit. "I don't know, Faith. I don't know. He says he loves her. He _loves_ her!" Dean began pacing frenetically around the motel room.

"What happened?" said Faith more slowly. He could hear water running and ceramic clinking against tile as she washed something in the sink. "From the beginning, Dean."

"So he goes off for a few days to be all solo Burning Man in the desert, and then he calls me to meet him at some sketchy wedding parlor in my fed suit. I get there thinking there's a case, but then he's all standing in front of the altar looking like some goddamn puppy waiting for its owner to come home. He practically had frigging hearts in his eyes, Faith. _HEARTS_!"

"And you're sure it's – "

"Magic." Having completed his hex bag search, Dean stood in the middle of the motel room, scowling at the wallpaper. "It's gotta be. Becky – I mean, you dress her up in the right clothes and fix her make up, and sure she'd be a solid 7.5 –"

"But . . ."

"But she's weird. Super weird. And crazy. And creepy. Even at his lowest, Sam'd never go for her. Not if he was in his right mind. So, yeah. This has got to be magic. You still in Maine?" he asked as his rant wound itself to an end.

Sighing, Faith apologized, "Sorry. These bastards've moved into the caves. We're having to hunt them down by exploring the entire coastline."

That had not been the answer that he wanted. "Sh-t. I need backup."

"Can Bobby help you out? I'm real sorry, Dean, but I've got to finish with these Skerloth demons."

Panic surged in the hunter's guts. He had to make her understand. "Something's _wrong_ , Faith," he grumbled.

"I believe you. And I'll be there as soon as I can," the Slayer soothed. "But I've got work to do here first. Spike says hello, by the way."

Dean continued glaring at the tacky wallpaper, squelching the desire to just burn it all down. "Hurry up, will you? This is horrifying."

She made a sympathetic noise, somewhere between a cough and a laugh. "I'll do best to wrap this up quick," she promised. "Soon as these Skerloths are in the ground, I'll be right over."

* * *

**October 17th, 2012, Pike Creek, Delaware, 9:57 p.m.**

This time, he waited until Sam had fallen asleep before stepping into the bathroom to have a private conversation. The Slayer did not answer the first time that he called, and so he dialed her number again, frowning.

"Hello?"

"It's over. Where were you?" He knew she had that weird demon thing, but the last few days had been so mind-bogglingly frustrating that he just needed to take it out on someone. And, as always, she was the only non-Sam someone that he had.

Faith cleared her throat. "Sorry. Caves, demons, New England. Brief foray into American history land. Is Sam . . ."

"He's back to being Sam." The hunter glanced warily at the closed bathroom door and added, "I think."

"What was it in the end? Love philter, concussion, special K?"

"Love spell," confirmed Dean. "Turns out Becky unknowingly made friends with a demon. He gave her a love potion as a way to reel her into making a permanent deal. Didn't realize who she was going to use it on, so I guess he had a bit of a nasty shock when he met Sam."

The Slayer whistled into the phone. "So you were right."

"Thank you. No one else seems to appreciate that."

"Bobby come help?"

"No. He was on a case. Sent some punk hayseed kid called Garth. He's a hugger," he said darkly, the 'h'-word nearly as foul a condemnation as Dean could imagine. "We set up a trap for the demon, when guess who showed up?"

She protested the guessing game. "Unggh. Just tell me?"

"Crowley. Turns out this demon was making deals and then calling people's souls in early. Guess our newfangled king of Hell ain't a fan of that. And what's more, he says that he's called all his people off, until this Leviathan thing is settled."

A car door slammed somewhere on her end of the line. "Interesting. That all he said?"

"Basically."

"And you're sure Sam's good?" asked the Slayer concernedly. "He's not still seeing pink Lucifer elephants or anything?"

"He says no, but neither him nor me've got a great track record with the truth." At Faith's snort, Dean continued, "You didn't have to agree with me, you know."

"Mmm, but Winchesters are to secrets as Acme is to anvils."

"All right, college girl. You can stow the analogies." He couldn't really argue with her, but he could change the subject. "By the way, Frank's been hounding me about getting more off the grid. Might be a while until I check in again."

"Fair enough." Faith took the news in stride. "I'm probably headed back to the UK after we finish here. Gotta check on my flat, make sure that Angel hasn't turned the whole place into some dark library. He's liable to replace my Harry Potter with Victor Hugo. I'm gonna . . . " Her voice trailed away as a new thought struck, and then she switched tacks. "Two things."

The hunter had no idea what to expect. "Okay?"

"One - I'm gonna reach out to Willow, see if she can recommend something for incognito communication. Two, you and Sam should swing through Cleveland some time soon. The girls have been cooking something up for you."

* * *

**October 24th, 2012, Cleveland, Ohio, 2:30 p.m.**

They met Lily outside her narrow three-story brownstone in a trendy neighborhood in Cleveland. She and Becka had moved into the place a few years back, with Faith as an intermittent tenant, but Dean couldn't say that he had ever actually been inside. The blonde was late for a rehearsal, and so she met them on the sidewalk beside her red Chevy Cobalt, a pair of aviator sunglasses perched on her head, her dance bag on her shoulder and a bag of supplies for the hunters in her other hand.

After dispensing with the pleasantries, Lily withdrew the first present from the bag, a small black snapping wallet with a small mirror set inside the front flap. She passed it to Dean.

"What's this?" He turned the wallet over in his hands and glanced up in confusion.

The blonde shrugged. "Willow's been indulging her Harry Potter addiction. She's started making these during her down time."

Crowding up against his older brother, Sam stared at the wallet. "How does it work?"

Lily rattled off the basic instructions. "You keep 'em in your pocket. If you want to talk to Faith, you pull it out and say her name into the glass. Her mirror will heat up, and then she'll pick it up and talk to you. It's just a prototype, though, so be careful. Willow isn't sure how warm the mirrors can get, and the heat tends to build up the longer you let them sit, so you probably want to answer them quickly."

Relying on the time-honored Winchester tradition of looking all gift horses very carefully in their mouths, Dean wondered, "If it's a prototype, how come she's giving it to me? This fall under the category of doing favors for Faith to keep her from going off the rez?"

"I think it was a bit of a compromise," Lily said delicately. "To convince her to consider doing some extra work for Buffy while she's in London."

"Right, okay." The hunter brushed her explanation aside and shoved the wallet into his jeans pocket. He knew the chances of him ever using this magical gadget were slim to none. "That all you got for us, Q?"

"I got something else you might like." The blonde opened her second bag and withdrew two hybrid Super Soakers. The bright blue and orange plastic of the water guns had been modified. Someone had attached a handheld compressed air canister to the butt of each gun as well as drilling in a few extra holes. Lily began explaining how they worked. "It's pretty simple. You put your borax here," she indicated one of the holes, "and your water here. Then you give it a little shake and go to town."

Dean accepted the Super Soaker with far more enthusiasm than he had the wallet. Now this, plain old McGyver ingenuity, this was the kind of thing he could get solidly behind. "Who made these?"

"Becka's threw them together over the weekend." Lily handed the second Super Soaker to Sam. "Now go forth and spray Leviathans," she ordered in her best Charlton Heston voice.

"Thanks, Lil." The older hunter gave her a one-armed hug, careful not to bump her in the head with his newest toy. "Tell Beck she did good."

"Thanks," echoed Sam. "These are great."

Blue eyes darting from one hunter to the other, Lily leaned in towards Dean and asked a question in an undertone. "He's still got his soul, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I can hear you, Lily."

"Oh, right." The blonde straightened up. "That was what we call sotto voce in theater, by the way." She tugged her sunglasses down over her eyes. "You should call me sometime," she told him bluntly. "You know. Or whatever."

Without waiting for an answer, she retreated into the safety of her Chevy and pulled away from the curb.

As they watched the cherry-red car round the corner, Dean raised an eyebrow and turned to his brother. "Get it, Sammy."

"Yeah, whatever," said Sam awkwardly. "You . . . You don't think that's actually worth a shot, do you?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know, man. I'm just saying that's about as blatant an invitation as you're likely to get. Watch yourself, though." He unlocked the Impala and slid behind the wheel.

"Oh?" Sam closed the passenger side door with a little too much force. "How come? It's Lily – she and Becka are like as normal as Slayers ever get."

"Because if you hurt her, I'll punch you in the face."

Sam laughed. "Great. Like you don't do that already." He glanced out the window and then back to his brother. "And here I thought you were gonna tell me how Faith would kill me if I messed things up."

"Oh, she'll cut your balls off." Dean didn't even hesitate. "No doubt about that. She'll cut your balls off, and then I'll punch you in the face. So, you know, no pressure or anything."

* * *

**January 27th, 2013, London, England, 9:20 p.m.**

Sitting down in Giles' library with a mug of tea, Faith pulled the inexpensive black compact out of her pocket. She had been carrying the thing around intermittently for a couple of months now, but she had never quite worked up the courage to try it. But for once, Magic Town was finally, blissfully quiet for the night, and there was no time like the present for experimentation.

The Slayer flipped open the compact and stared at her face for a few brief seconds. Apart from the zit on her chin that was threatening to mount a nuclear campaign against the rest of her complexion, everything was about as good as it was ever going to get. Narrowing her eyes and feeling like quite the idiot, she said, "Mirror, mirror on the wall, I would like to make a call."

When the mirror did nothing, Faith narrowed her eyes still further. "Dean Winchester," she snapped. "Get me Dean Winchester, you stupid cheap piece of crap."

Abuse seemed to do the trick, for the mirror warmed in her hand. Half a minute later, a haggard, scruffy face appeared in the small circle. "So this thing does work after all," he mumbled, blinking heavily. "Wasn't expecting that."

"You okay? You look a little out of it."

Dean blinked again. "Yeah, sorry – late night. I was catching up on sleep when the wallet started trying to burn my leg off."

"Oh," said Faith, disappointed. "We can talk later, if you wan – "

Yawning, the hunter shook his head. "Nah, this is good."

"Happy birthday, by the way. I know it was a couple of days ago, but . . ."

"Thanks." He yawned for a second time.

In an effort to lift the mood, the Slayer decided to be ridiculous. "Mirror, mirror on the wall," she repeated teasingly. "Who's the sexiest one of all? I mean, she's looking into the mirror right now."

"You realize I can see up your nose and count all the nose hairs, right?" Dean teased back. "Kinda takes away a little of your . . . oh, what's the word - allure? That's what the mirror would say, of course. You know, if this was actually Snow White."

"Very funny." Her plan had succeeded. He now looked significantly less sleepy. "How're kicks?"

The hunter glanced outside the frame of the mirror as he answered her question."Sam's sane, and the Leviathans haven't eaten me yet. So I guess kicks are fine. Oh, did I tell you they're planning on turning us all into hamburger and putting crap in our food to make us fat, slow, and stupid? Sam's using that an excuse to drag me off of processed foods and make me eat that frigging rabbit crap. I'm a grown-ass adult, and all I can eat lately are salads."

Taking a deep sip from her tea, Faith considered this new information."So they're breeding sheeple?"

"Chemically manipulating metabolism by putting stuff in the food. Eugh." Dean shuddered theatrically. "Anyway, enough of that. How's London?"

She looked down at the mug in her hands. "Matter of fact, that's kind of why I called. Or paged. Or mirrored. Whatever this is. I'm actually headed to Romania tomorrow. There's some ancient vampire clan out there that's trying to bring about the end of the world."

"End of the world? Must be Thursday," joked Dean.

"Ha. Yeah." Faith paused. Someone was calling her name from the kitchen. _Dammit_. She truly had been looking forward to this conversation. "Anyway . . . Fred's hollering for me. I'd better dash."

"Okay." Dean ran a hand across his stubble. "Guess we'll talk later, then?"

* * *

**March 16th, 2013, Brasov, Romania, 3:14 p.m.**

The Slayer was halfway across the main plaza in Brasov, headed for the clock tower and her Watcher's council contact, when something began burning its way through her messenger bag into her hip. She fished in the bag, fumbling through sunglasses and maps and the Saran-wrapped remains of an ancient scone, until her fingers closed around the scorching heat of her oft-neglected compact.

Darting into the shade of an overhanging building, Faith flipped the compact open. The heat began to dissipate instantly, but she still had to pass it from hand to hand like a solo game of hot-potato. "Ouch," she muttered to herself. "Jeez. I'd forgotten this damn thing was in there. Hey –" She looked up to address the face in the mirror and then froze.

" _Sam_?" she asked incredulously. "Is something up?"

His face was disturbingly sober, his brows furrowed together with a thumbprint-shaped wrinkle pressed into the skin between them. "Faith, we need you. Come home."

Faith carried the compact down into the small space between a bank and one of the more touristy-restaurants. The last thing she needed was for the locals to see her talking to herself. Most of the Romanians she had met already seemed to think she was a little off her nut. "What's wrong?"

The hunter exhaled slowly. "Where to start . . . Dean hasn't been doing so good since Bobby died."

For an instant, she was sure that she had misheard. But then her brain processed his last sentence a second time, and a third, still coming to the same interpretation. "Since _what_?"

Sam looked at her sharply. "Bobby - the Leviathans shot him. Didn't . . . didn't Dean tell you?"

"No." Faith gritted her teeth at the admission. "I haven't heard from your brother in almost a month. Guess I figured things were fine."

"Yeah." He laughed shakily. "Things . . . Things are not fine. I hate to ask, but can you – can you just wrap up your vampire stuff and come home? Dean needs you. We need you."

Lowering her voice so as not to be heard by anyone passing by the alleyway, she insisted, "I have a life outside of you Winchesters, you know. I'm a Slayer, and there are things a Slayer needs to do. Big things - important things."

"Faith, _please_." Sam turned the full power of his liquid hazel eyes on her.

Despite her frustration, Faith could do nothing but surrender to those eyes. Once again, she realized how Sam managed to get away with so much. He just _looked_ at people, and they melted.

"All right," she capitulated. "I'll see what I can do. Pick a city, and I'll try to meet you there in a week. Usual methods apply."

"Thank you," Sam let out a long exhale, as though he had been holding his breath. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important. He really needs you."

"I'll be there soon, okay?" Faith checked her watch. She was five minutes late for her appointment. If she didn't hurry, two weeks of undercover work would be for nothing. "I gotta run."

"Okay. Bye."

* * *

**March 19th, 2013, Charleston, South Carolina, 7:48 p.m.**

Before meeting the Winchesters, Faith flew into Cleveland to pick up her bike from Becka and Lily's driveway. She set off for South Carolina an hour before dawn, a heavy scarf wrapped around her neck and tucked into the collar of her leather jacket. After the narrow, winding roads of the Carpathians, it was a relief to hit the American freeway on her Harley. She zipped past semis and school buses, sports cars and SUVs, and with every hour, more of the knots inside of her chest unkinked themselves.

Romania had been . . . well, even with an entire ocean between her and the homeland of Vlad the Impaler, Faith felt as though the country had still stuck its claws deep into her. She found herself half-mumbling Romanian pleasantries when passing over her cash at gas stations, and she kept waiting for snow-capped mountains to appear on the horizon. As she moved further south, the warm welcome of the Carolinas drew her out of her reverie and back into herself.

By the time she arrived in Charleston and located a phone book, the Slayer had had more than enough time to prepare and to plot. She had a plan and she was sticking to it. Faith located the first motel name under the A's in the yellow pages and plugged the address into her phone. Twenty minutes later, she was knocking on the faded orange paint of room 241, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her leathers.

The man who answered the door stared at her first in shock and then in irritation. Without speaking, he stepped back from the doorway and gestured for her to come in. When the door closed behind her, he grumbled, "Sam called you in to babysit me, huh?"

Fine. Antagonistic it was. Faith could run with that. "What?" She feigned surprise. "No 'Hi, Faith, how are you? Your makeup looks really great today. Is that a new jacket?'"

Dean crossed his arms across his chest. "Hi, Faith. How are you?" he asked with syrupy sarcasm, which then drained away to exhaustion. "Your makeup's good, but it's always good. You've had that jacket for four years. There anything else you wanted? You just missed Sam – too bad. Seems like you two've been talking a lot lately."

Refusing to be baited, she said only, "I'm not here to babysit you. I got a nasty vamp case on the outskirts of town. Word had it you were in the area. There's a spare helmet on my bike. You wanna come?"

His posture relaxing a fraction, the hunter clarified, "We talking one vamp or a nest?"

"Nest the size of Texas." It was a slight exaggeration, but by the time he realized that, he would have burned off enough of his aggression on some unlucky fang.

"What're you waiting for?" Dean pushed past Faith to reach the outdoors. "Let's go."

* * *

It took them half an hour to make their away across the city to Memorial, just one of Charleston's many sprawling cemeteries. Faith rode her bike as reckless as ever, racing through yellow lights and darting around the evening traffic. The hunter's arms locked around her waist like an iron bar, his body a solid warmth crowded up against her back. They stashed the bike a block away from the main entrance to the cemetery. Once she had stowed both helmets, the Slayer pulled her black backpack out of the saddlebags. She fished inside for a moment.

"Here." She tossed a stake at the hunter's head. He caught it automatically and tucked it into his belt. Faith shoved two stakes into her boots, one in each, and grabbed the final two stakes from her bag.

"What, no machete?" Dean asked, only half-joking.

"Nope." Faith grinned and twirled the stake in her hands. "Tonight we're going old school all the way."

In the end, the dust-up wasn't quite as exciting as the Slayer had intended. Not even twenty minutes were required to locate the vampires' nest. It was the only limestone mausoleum in the cemetery, and with the door half-open and drunken voices spilling out into the night, the vampires were practically asking for someone to come in and give them hell.

On her own, Faith might have had a little trouble with the nest. Eight against one were pretty steep odds, even for a Slayer. But with Dean as her backup, the fight was over in fifteen short, glorious minutes.

Breathless, she surveyed their handiwork and grinned. "Not too bad, eh, Winchester?"

Dean was too busy investigating the filthy blankets, half-empty alcohol bottles, and other detritus of the vampire's stay to answer. Heedless of the dust coating his skin, he shoved bottles aside until he finally found what he was looking for: a pint of vodka, the seal intact. Tucking the vodka beneath his arm, he swept up the least dirty of the blankets and headed towards the doorway of the mausoleum. Curious, the Slayer followed.

Outside in the cool night air, the hunter seemed reinvigorated. He wrapped the vodka bottle in the blanket and tossed both of them up onto the top of the stone building. Then he grabbed onto the vines of tangled ivy at the back of the mausoleum and used them to scramble up onto the stone roof.

"Come on." He leaned back out and extended his hand for the Slayer. "Join me."

Atop the mausoleum, the hunter spread out the dust-covered horse blanket. He kicked his legs off the edge of the roof and uncapped the bottle. After taking a long swig, he passed it over.

Faith drank once and pulled a face. "Ugh. Vodka."

"At least it's free, right?"

She had no counterargument, and for a long moment, neither spoke. Finally the Slayer broached what had been on her mind ever since she received the mirror call from Sam. "So. Bobby?"

Taking the vodka back, Dean drank deeply before replying. "I think he's come back. As a ghost."

"You see him?" Faith kept her tone flat.

"No, but I've got this feeling. Things keep happening, and this is the about the only explanation that makes sense."

"Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me." Faith accepted the bottle and sipped briefly. "And Sam said something else about Amazons?"

Dean sucked his teeth. "Had sex. Two days later I had a teenage daughter. The Amazons sent her to kill me. I was gonna talk her down, but Sam shot her before I could get there. Guess it was payback for Amy. Don't give me that look –" he added, glowering at the Slayer. "The damn condom broke."

"That wasn't why I was - never mind. Drink." She set the vodka in his lap.

"You drink." The hunter attempted to shove it back at her.

"I gotta drive," Faith demurred. "And I don't like vodka."

"Sam's a rat for dragging you here. But I'm glad you came. Now come on. Drink with me. It feels less stupid than when I drink alone."

Reluctantly accepting the alcohol, the Slayer took one final sip. "I'm glad to be back Stateside, too," she admitted. "I was getting kinda fed up with all the politicking over in Brasov. You'd like it, Romania. It's not too hard on the eyes, sometimes. Maybe . . . when we get this Leviathan thing all wrapped up, we go on a hunting trip around Europe - there's monsters in almost every old castle, it feels like. Wouldn't have to fly once you got over there. We could just take the train."

"Sounds nice," said Dean, although they both knew it would never happen. "Maybe someday."

Silence reigned for another few minutes, and then the hunter reached for the cap of the vodka bottle. After he spun the aluminum cap down over the glass threads, he patted the Slayer on the knee. "Come on. We should head back. Don't want to keep Samantha waiting up too late."

They descended as easily as they had climbed. Faith spared one last glance for the trashed mausoleum. "Leave the stuff?"

"Yeah." Dean took another drink from the nearly-empty bottle. "Leave the stuff." He waited until they had reached the gateway of the cemetery before speaking again. "It used to be easier."

"What did?" wondered Faith, fancying that she already knew the answer.

The hunter drank again. "Everything."

* * *

No one spoke throughout their long ride back across Charleston. A little past midnight, Faith maneuvered her Harley into the empty parking space next to the Impala. She killed the motor and knocked the kickstand down, then helped a slightly wobbly hunter off the bike before dismounting herself.

"Want to do this again tomorrow?" Dean said nonchalantly, unbuckling his helmet and passing it over. He was thoroughly sloshed now, dancing the fine line between needy and incoherent.

"Sure thing," answered the Slayer, securing both helmets back in the saddlebags.

"They don't need you back in Romania?" he pressed.

"Buffy can handle things without me. She's got a whole squad of Slayers to back her up."

"I'd take one of you over ten of them."

"You're drunk." Still, she smiled.

The hunter returned her smile with a lopsided one of his own. "Good. Then I can sleep."

"Mmm." Faith slipped her arm under his shoulders before he could keel over. "Let's get you inside."

"You don't have to stay on the couch," Dean said seriously as they reached the doorway. He fumbled for his wallet and the motel room key. "You can stay with me."

"Sam - "

"- will keep his damn mouth shut. For all I know, he thinks he's sleeping with Satan."

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

Taking over Operation Wallet, the Slayer grabbed the key card for herself. "Don't say that in front of your brother."

"Okay. You really do look good tonight, by the way," Dean added as she twisted the door handle.

Finally shoving the door open with her hip, Faith maneuvered the hunter inside. "You need to get to bed." She walked him across the room and dropped him with a gentle push onto the Sam-free mattress. "Okay. There you go."

Dean collapsed backwards against the pillows. Closing his eyes, he was out like a rock. Faith retreated back outside to grab her backpack and then stepped into the bathroom to change and brush her teeth.

While she was flossing, Sam knocked once and then joined her in the bathroom. The hair at his temples seemed thinner than usual, and Faith wondered if he had lost weight.

"You sure tuckered him out," the hunter said tiredly, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

"Strictly slaying." Faith finished her bottom teeth and advanced to her top. "No screwing, if that's what you mean."

"No, I didn't . . ."

"You trust me, Sam?" When he did not immediately respond, she tacked on, "With your brother?"

"Of course." He said without hesitation.

"Then let me steer this one for a while, okay? Let's stick to work - leave whatever Dean's feeling alone until he decides he wants to talk. And if he doesn't, then we deal."

"You're just like him sometimes."

"Huh." Faith lifted up one corner of her mouth in a wry grin. "Lisa used to say that, too."

Finishing up, she tossed her floss into the trashcan. She shoved a wooden chair in front of the motel room door and then crawled under the bedcovers.

"Mmmph," grumbled the sleeping man as the mattress dipped beneath her weight.

"It's me. Go back to sleep." The Slayer rolled over onto her side.

"Mmph," came the less-grumpy response.

From the darkness behind her eyelids, Faith could hear Sam chuckling.


	120. Burnout

 

* * *

**March 25th, 2013, Wichita, Kansas, 9:15 p.m.**

Three days. She had left them alone for a measly three days while she checked in on Dana, a psychotic Slayer who was currently undergoing rehabilitation in a psychiatric hospital in Kansas City. Six hours after her departure, she received a text from Dean telling her about a hunt in Wichita. The insanity only intensified from there, and with texts coming in about evil Slinkies and murderous unicorns, Faith was hard pressed to say which was crazier: Dana or the case in Kansas.

Now, her Harley once again trailered behind the Chevy, she finished off the tail ends of the cold hamburger that the brothers had saved for her and listened to the highly-animated retelling of their adventures. When the story came to an end, there was only one point that struck the Slayer as the most salient.

"So, let me get this straight. Sam, you're afraid of _clowns_?" she half-crowed with delight.

The tall hunter sitting shotgun scoffed and shifted in his seat. "What?" he said defensively. "Like you're not afraid of anything?"

"Sure I am," Faith surveyed him over the rim of her beer bottle. "But it's normal stuff. Angelus turning me into a vampire, the State of California waking up enough to send my ass back to jail, getting liver cancer . . . you know, normal stuff. Not clowns."

Dean tilted his head back against his seat and shot a split-second glance over his shoulder. "Hate to break it to you, Faith, but none of that stuff you mentioned is normal. Except maybe the cancer."

"Look who decided to be on my side for once," said Sam. He reached into the back seat, and Faith pressed another beer bottle into his searching hand. "Thanks."

His older brother snorted. "I do not always take her side."

Laughing, Sam popped the cap off his beer. "Maybe not always, but like ninety percent of the time you do."

"You want me to be on your side, Sam?" the Slayer patted him on the shoulder teasingly. "Would that fix things? Are you feeling left out?"

"No," the younger man denied vehemently, shaking his head. "The clown thing just isn't funny."

"Maybe not, but this picture of you covered in glitter after the damn things exploded sure as hell is." Dean handed his phone over to Faith.

The Slayer whistled. "Damn, Sammy."

"It's Sam," he corrected her for the umpteenth time.

"Nah." Faith swished a mouthful of beer around before swallowing it. "'Damn, Sam?' That rhymes way too much."

"She has a point," admitted Dean from the driver's seat, easing the Impala into the oncoming lane to pass an eighteen-wheeler.

"Dude, look, there you go again -"

He chuckled. "Sorry, Sam. Sorry. How about we make it up to you? You can choose where we eat breakfast in the morning. But there's gotta be meat. Deal?'

Accepting defeat, Sam grinned in spite of himself. "Okay, deal."

* * *

**April 7th, 2013, Northern Indiana State Hospital, Madison, Indiana, 3:57 p.m.**

Dean cleared his throat as the Slayer slipped into the hospital room. "Dr. Kandinsky, this is my sister, Hope. Could you repeat for her what you told me?" he requested when Faith ignored the doctor's hand and instead stared at the emaciated man tied down to the bed in abject horror.

Dr. Kandinsky, a white-haired psychiatrist who stood six-feet with a slight stoop, sighed and then began, "Miss McGillicutty, as I've just explained, your brother Steven is in the middle of a classic full-blown psychotic episode. We've given him several sedative medications – Ativan and haldol among others – but he continues to experience symptoms. He says that he hasn't slept in five days."

The Slayer glanced up towards Dean. "That true?" she asked gingerly. "And we didn't notice?" The 'we' was more for the doctor's benefit that for anything else. Faith had been out on a milk run to pick up some of her things in Cleveland when she received Dean's panicked text message with an address and a request to hurry.

"Work schedules haven't exactly been regular lately," the hunter hedged. "And you know Steve – he's not big on being made a fuss of."

"What's he seeing, do you know?" Faith inquired of the doctor.

He sighed a second time. "Steven is experiencing religious delusions. He says that he can see the Devil in this room with him, taunting him. These types of delusions are fairly common in psychosis," he said comfortingly. "Many patients have them. With the right combination of medications, we should be able to help bring your brother out of it."

"God, I hope so." The Slayer shot another sideways look at Dean. Now that she had arrived, he seemed to have delegated the role of hospital intermediary to her, just like he did with his brother. Faith gnawed on the inside of her cheek. She did not like being the spokesperson. "Thanks for your help, doctor."

"Not at all." The psychiatrist eyed his watch. "If you'll excuse me, we have a staff meeting in a few minutes. Why don't you stay and visit with Steven, see if you can get him to relax a little bit? I'll check in with you again a little later."

Faith and Dean waited for the doctor to exit the room before sinking into the two chairs on either side of the hospital bed. "Oh, Sam," mumbled the Slayer, gently tracing the fabric restraints at his wrist with the tip of one finger. "You hear all that?"

Frustration burning in his eyes, Sam lifted his chin and looked up from his lap. "I'm crazy, not in a coma," he said through gritted teeth.

"Right." Faith retracted her hand. "What's Lucifer doing now?"

"He's playing Cat's Cradle with some string. Look, do I really have to talk about it?"

"Long as you're seeing it, you're talking about it," Dean said firmly. "That way we can help remind you what's real."

Sam grimaced. "You should go. He's saying some pretty awful things about the two of you now."

"We'll go," conceded his brother. "But only because I'm going to find a way to fix this."

"No." The hunter shook his head. "There's nothing you can do, Dean. We both knew there was always the chance this might happen. When the wall came down . . ." He lapsed into silence, staring at an empty point on the wall in a way that gave Faith the heebie jeebies.

They stepped out into the deserted hallway, and Faith turned towards the exit.

"Hang on." Dean grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her to a halt. He lowered his voice. "I need you to do me a favor."

"What?"

Nodding towards the closed door to his brother's room, he said, "Stay with him. Stay with Sam until I get back. It'll only be a few days, I hope."

Surprised, Faith raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "Dean, it's a psych ward. I'll have to check in on him during visiting hours. They won't let me stay here – not unless I convince them to admit me as a patient."

The hunter opened his mouth to interject, but she cut him off. "No, Dean. I'm not doing that again. Not for Sam, not for you, not for anyone."

Shoulders slumping, Dean sighed. "Then I guess visiting hours is fine. I should take off, before it gets any later."

"One thing, before you go – "

"Yeah?"

Reaching out, the Slayer grabbed the front lapel of his jacket and jerked him down to her level. She kissed him briefly, her mouth tasting of lipstick and Diet Coke. Then, just as quickly she pulled back and pushed him away.

"What was that for?" he demanded, breathless and confused, as he wiped the traces of crimson off of his lips.

Faith shrugged carelessly. "You looked like you could use a pick-me-up. And the hall was deserted. So there. Happy hunting."

Dean glanced down at the red lipstick smeared across the back of his hand. When he looked up again, his green eyes meeting hers, there was something dark in their depths that made Faith distinctly uncomfortable. "We're not done here." He brushed his hand against his jeans. "When I get back –"

"You can't get back unless you go," she countered. "You got a mission, remember?" The Slayer tipped her head backwards towards Sam's door. "So get."

* * *

She wandered aimlessly up and down the halls for five minutes until she found the toilet, and then she reluctantly dragged herself back to Sam's room. She hadn't told Dean everything, not about how she felt where psych hospitals were concerned. Faith shoved memories back into the crypts that they had dragged themselves out of and steeled herself to enter the room.

The man in the bed was still staring at the wall. He turned his head at her approach. "Faith?"

"Hey, Sammy." Exhaling, the Slayer dropped into a chair. "Looks like I'll be checking in on you while Dean's out." She scooted her chair closer to the bed. "How're you feeling?"

Sam's hand snapped out, and he squeezed her fingers so tightly that Faith winced.

"Impressive grip there, Samuel," she tried to lighten things, twisting her hand carefully. "You mind easing it up a bit?"

"Do you want to know what he says about you?" Sam nudged his chin towards the wall that had so preoccupied him earlier. Faith figured that was the spot where his Lucifer hallucination kept manifesting itself.

"Not really." Since Lucifer was currently contained in and created by Sam's head, that meant that whatever horrible things Lucifer was spouting were also derived from Sam's head. Faith had no desire to find out what Dean's little brother really thought about her, the deep down things that he never talked about. Her imagination could come up with plenty on its own.

"Lucky you. I can't stop listening to him."

Faith half-rose from her chair. "You want me to go ask the doctors for more sedatives?"

The hunter laughed hysterically, and he finally relinquished her hand. "It won't help. You know that as well as I do, Faith. There's not a thing on earth that can help me now."

Fleetingly, she thought of Dean, already speeding who knew where in his '67 Chevy on the same quest that he had been striving to fulfill for his entire life: the quest to save his little brother. "We'll see about that."

* * *

The next day, Faith came in twice to visit her 'brother' in the hospital. The first time she dropped by, Sam was busily engaged in a shouting match with his wall about the reality of the Cage, thrashing so violently in his restraints that he appeared about to seize. Faith quickly slipped out the door and summoned the hospital staff to give him another dose of something – benzos, anti-psychotics, marijuana – honestly, she didn't give a damn, just so long as Sam Winchester was still alive and in more or less one piece when his brother returned.

At her second visit, the hunter was so sedated that he could hardly hold up his eyelids. His mouth sagged open at the corners, and a faint trail of drool threatened to slide down his chin. This time, Faith had snuck him in a Snickers bar, but she did not bother taking it out of her bag. Sam was too much of a choking hazard. She sat with him in silence for an hour and a half, relaying Dean's text updates and performing a mind-cleansing ritual that Willow had forwarded along by email.

* * *

On day three of Sam's hospital stay, the medical team seemed to have finally arrived at a satisfactory combination of medications. Well, it was satisfactory in that he was alert, and unsatisfactory in that he continued to be "floridly psychotic," as Dr. Kandinsky so eloquently put it to Faith during a family meeting. To the Slayer's relief, despite Sam's hallucinations the hunter remained lucid enough to keep up the con, identifying her as his sister 'Hope' whenever he was asked.

When the Slayer stopped in for her evening visit, Sam had left his room. He was visiting with a young girl named Marin and trading chocolate bars. Faith surveyed the two from a distance, and then she took off.

That night, she fixed herself a bag of instant popcorn in the motel microwave while listening to Dean's latest news. A hunter named Mackey had passed along word of a faith healer out in Colorado called Emmanuel. Dean was only a few hours out from Emmanuel's place.

"If he can heal eyes, he can heal minds," he told her with equal parts conviction and desperation. "If he is what everyone says he is, he might just be able to fix Sam."

"I hope so," replied Faith noncommittally, watching her popcorn bag slowly rise and swell.

"So how is he?"

The Slayer chose her words with care. "Less like a vegetable than yesterday evening. He seems to be interacting with other patients okay. He doesn't always want to talk to me, but that's not so surprising."

"Don't take it personal. He does that to me sometimes when he's not like this."

"Mmm." Faith noted how he was carefully dancing around not using the 'crazy' word. "Anyway, I think he seems fairly stable. He's not getting better, but he's not getting worse. Call me when you finish talking with Emmanuel?"

"I will. Enjoy your dinner."

Ripping open the corners of her popcorn bag, the Slayer eyed the delicious buttery, salty goodness within. "Oh, I'm going to."

* * *

**April 10th, 2013, Northern Indiana State Hospital, Madison, Indiana, 4:30 p.m.**

She gave the hunter until half-past four before her curiosity got the better of her. Sam continued to be much the same as the day before, always occupied with talking to the same young female patient. He hardly seemed to recognize her when he saw her, and Faith didn't much like the angry look that accompanied his recognition. Not that the Slayer could say she was surprised. Her relationship with Sam had always been tenuous, with buried resentments on both sides.

After an hour and a half of being ignored by both Sam and the staff, Faith retreated to the hospital's healing garden and called Dean. He picked up on the fourth ring with a brusque, "We got problems."

The Slayer's eyebrows climbed up her forehead. "You find Emmanuel?"

"Yeah. And that's the problem. This ain't some faith healer named Emmanuel. It's Cass."

"What?"

"He's back. Doesn't know much about how it happened. He'd been living as Emmanuel for the last few months – no memory of who he was before. Then I got him to come with me and help Sam, and we got jumped by a pack of demons and –"

Faith interrupted. "I thought Crowley told his mutts to stay away while you and Sam sorted out Dick Roman?"

"Truce's over. Guess we weren't getting Dick fast enough. Anyway, I hoped the demon attack might've jogged his memory, but it didn't. On the other hand, Meg showed up and pitched in."

" _Meg_? Your brother's first demon girlfriend? The one who sicced those Hellhounds on you and the Harvelles? You trusting her now?"

"Of course not. I'm just giving her a ride to Indiana. She seems more obsessed with Cass, anyway."

"I'm not on speaker, am I?"

"No. I'm filling up the car. They're inside the car. You wanna be on speaker?"

The Slayer ventured carefully, "No, I don't. I was just wondering . . . Dean, do you think you can trust Cass?"

"Of course I can," Dean answered instantly.

"Even though he's the one who tore down Sam's mind-wall in the first place?"

"I haven't forgotten. You got a problem, Boston?"

Realizing that discretion was the greater part of valor, Faith backed down. "No. And I don't need to tell you this, but be careful?"

"Aw, you're worried about my safety. That's almost cute."

"Dean – "

"You just keep Sam safe until I get back, okay? We'll figure everything else out from there."

"They want to try ECT treatment on him, Dean."

"EC what?"

"ECT. Electroconvulsive something or other. Shock therapy. Kandinsky says it's not as 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' as Jack Nicholson made it seem, but . . ."

"What does Sam think about all this?"

Faith shrugged, forgetting momentarily that he could not see her. "Not a clue. He's not even really engaging with the staff anymore. He's playing Lonely Hearts Club with this suicidal girl."

"My brother. He's had that thing for damsels in distress ever since he was a kid. We'll see you tomorrow, alright?"

"Got it."

* * *

**April 11th, 2013, Northern Indiana State Hospital, Madison, Indiana, 3:15 p.m.**

"So . . ." Faith eyed the cadre of people gathered around Sam's hospital bed with curiosity and suspicion. Sam was sitting on the bed, looking at his hands as though he had never seen them before. Castiel, clad in his ever-present trench-coat, had slid down the opposite wall, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. A dark-eyed woman in a leather jacket turned as the Slayer entered the room and gave her a cold smile. "What'd I miss?"

Dean frowned at her. "Demon attacked Sam down in the shock room. Thankfully we got here in time to save him. Where were you?" he finished accusatorially.

"Kandinsky had me sequestered in his office for like the last hour and change. He said he wanted to talk about Sam – so I just kept feeding him bullshit. I'm starting to think he was trying to hit on me."

"Like you aren't used to that," said the strange woman. "Body like yours."

The hunter coughed. "Faith, Meg. Meg, Faith."

It was Faith's turn to scowl. She recognized that name. "I thought we weren't working with demons anymore?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Meg's going to stay here and look after Cass."

"What happened to him?" Faith attempted to interject some sympathy into her voice. Judging by the sour look Dean shot her way, it was less than convincing.

Slowly standing up from the bed, Sam said, "He healed me. And now he's having my hallucinations – seeing exactly what I was seeing."

"Which wasn't exactly kittens and puppy dogs . . ." The demon Meg tilted her head to the side. "Almost makes you wonder if it would be worth it . . . Just to see him, you know."

"Quit it with the devil worship," Dean lifted a hand to stop her. "We all know you were Lucifer's biggest fan. You know he didn't give a rat's ass about any of you demons, right? I mean, if the way he just let hordes of you die in his ramp up to the Apocalypse didn't prove that . . ."

"Oh, I know." Meg smiled insincerely. "I know a lot of things. I know that he –" she nodded at Castiel, "is only going to get worse before he gets better. I know that Samuel here's magically restored to sanity. And I know that you'd better get moving if you want to make it out of here before the questions start. Like I told you, Dean, I'll take care of Clarence."

Glancing between his brother and the fallen angel, the hunter nodded. "Yeah. We should. You promise you'll let me know if there's any change?"

"Scout's honor." The demon held up two fingers of her right hand.

"That's not how you . . ." Dean shook his head. "Never mind. Sammy, Faith, let's go."

* * *

**April 20th, 2013, San Antonio, Texas, 5:45 p.m.**

Dean managed to survive the next week and a half in relative peace. Every few days, he would get a text from Meg reporting in on Castiel's condition. Weird things kept happening around Bobby's flask, but the dead hunter himself had yet to visualize. Sometimes he still wasn't sure how he felt about having a third person in the car, and some days it was a relief when Faith unhitched her bike from the back of the Chevy and burnt up the asphalt on a devil-may-care chase on some errand for the Watcher's council.

She was balancing priorities, and sometimes that meant she frayed at the edges. Welcome to the club. Sam had been fraying for years, and as for Dean, he had been ragged for so long that he couldn't remember what being whole felt like. And while he might be relieved when she left, he was equally relieved when she returned.

It was starting to settle into a comfortable routine when things changed. And, as so often happened, his little brother was the catalyst for that change.

Starved, the three monster hunters had decided that it was worth risking restaurant food instead of making do another night on protein bars. Dean pulled into the first greasy spoon joint he saw in San Antone, and they hurried inside. While they ordered, he noticed that Sam was shifty in the way that meant that something was on his mind. After the moment of recognition, the hunter disregarded the thought. Sam would spill his guts when he was ready, and there was no point in ruining a decent cheeseburger by playing therapist.

Ultimately, Sam hestimated until the Slayer had left their tiny booth in the diner before speaking his mind. "Something's wrong with Faith," he confessed.

Confused, Dean looked up from his double bacon cheeseburger. That was not quite what he had been expecting. "Huh?"

"She's acting weird."

The hunter continued chewing. After swallowing, he said, "Weird like how?"

"I dunno . . ." His brother leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Is she . . .you know?"

"No, Sam, I don't know." He bit back into his burger. "Usthh yowh wawds."

"What? Did _you_ just tell _me_ to use my words?"

Dean swallowed again. "Yes."

"She's been all moody and secretive for the last two days. She's not by any chance PMS-ing or something, is she?"

Slurping his soda, the older hunter asked, "You see any tampons in the trashcan?"

Sam jerked back in his seat. "What? Gross. No."

"Then she's not on her period. Besides," he continued with quiet assurance, "Faith doesn't do that PMS thing. I'll talk to her, though. If you think she's bugging, might be worth looking into."

* * *

Dean waited until late in the evening before broaching the subject. After Sam had fallen asleep, he pushed his way into the bathroom where the Slayer was drying her hair. Without preamble, he said, "Sam thinks you're on your period."

She nearly dropped the blowdryer. "Excuse me? Not that it's any of his damn business – or yours, for that matter – but I'm not."

The hunter made a show out of dodging out of arms reach. "He says you're acting weird, and he's got a point. You have been a little twitchy. So, you wanna tell me what's up? Who's having a crisis – Buffy, Angel, Spike . . ."

Frowning, Faith returned the dryer to its cradle. "Lily got sideswiped by a werewolf last night," she admitted. "She thought it was fine, but now it hurts too much for her to put weight on the leg, and I guess it's swollen up pretty badly. They're concerned about infection. Becka's taking her to the ER now."

He could easily slice through this Gordian knot for her. "Go."

"What?"

" _Go_ ," the hunter repeated more forcefully. "If she needs you, go. Sam and I can handle whatever Leviathan crap comes up in the meantime. Go take care of your girl."

Faith flashed him a look of gratitude as she hastily began bundling her shower things back into their plastic bag. "Thanks," she said hurriedly, heading towards the main room.

"Hang on." Dean inserted himself between the Slayer and the doorway and caught her wrist as she passed him. He tilted his chin down and kissed her harshly before stepping back.

The Slayer looked up at him, her dark eyes wide with surprise. "The hell . . .?"

He smirked. "I told you we weren't done, Payback's a bitch, isn't it?"

A muscle tightened in the Slayer's jaw. "You know what? Screw payback." She reached out and pushed the bathroom door closed. Grabbing the hunter by the shirt, she walked backwards until she bumped into the counter. Faith disengaged long enough to hop up onto the cheap Formica, and then she pulled him back towards her.

"Sam – " Dean nodded his head towards the sleeping man in the other room.

"Won't hear anything. Not if we're quiet." Faith jerked the man forwards, letting her legs fall open to the sides and dragging him nearer. Her knees closed around her waist, and she draped her forearms around his neck. "You remember how to play, don't you?" she said slowly, resting her forehead against his. She ran the pad of her thumb across his bottom lip.

"First one to make a sound loses," Dean murmured, his eyes locked on her hand. His pupils were dilated, his breathing a tad faster than usual. "Winner names the penalty."

"Game on," whispered Faith, and she leaned forward to press her lips against his.

They carried on for an unknowable period of time – it might have been thirty seconds – it might have been five minutes – lost in the familiar feeling. This was easy – feeling good was easy – knowing each other's preferences and each other's moves the way that they did. His hands settled on her waist, and she left hers resting on either side of his jaw. For the moment, both were content to do that most uncharacteristic of things and go slow.

Before they could advance anywhere past going slow, Faith's phone rang in her back pocket, shattering the silence and destroying the moment. Dean shook his head as the Slayer reluctantly pulled away.

"I should answer this," she said with clear regret, tracing the edge of his jawline with her thumb. "It's Becka." She slid down from the counter, nearly landing on top of the man's feet.

"Yeah." He steadied her with an arm around her waist and then stepped back. "You should go. I'm gonna . . ." He jerked his head back towards the shower behind him. "I'm gonna take a cold shower."

Faith paused, the phone halfway to her ear. "Dean –"

He turned to look at her, his eyes blazing. "You don't walk out that door, we both know what's going to happen here. So if you're gonna go, you need to go now."

The Slayer spared him one last frustrated glance and then she slipped through the door and was gone.

* * *

**May 4th, 2013, Chicago, Illinois, 9:16 a.m.**

Dean finished his tale of corporate espionage at Sucrocorp with a succinct description of their accomplice. "So, this ginger nerd kid. Reminded me of one of your Slayerettes. Turns out she's gay and I had to talk her through flirting with a security guard over an ear piece."

The Slayer snorted, the sound echoing over the speaker phone. "And how'd you do that?"

"Pretended I was you."

This time, he managed to startle a real laugh out of her. Dean almost grinned himself. It had been a while since he heard that sound.

"So I have taught you something after all," Faith chuckled.

"One or two things," the hunter admitted. "So it turns out that Dick was after this tablet thing. Which, as I just told you, we stole out from under his nose. Apparently it's got the word of God on it – can only be read by a prophet. So me and Sam, we're off hunting pwophets."

"Nice one, Elmer Fudd. Does this mean no more Chuck, then?"

"He's disappeared. Seems like he's dead. Cass says there's a new prophet been called." He exhaled into the phone. "Which at least means no more stories."

Faith decided to burst his bubble. "As long as Andrew doesn't write any more of them . . ."

"Can it, Boston. Thinking about that makes me feel like somebody's bad-touching me."

"Besides, I already made that joke." Sam joined the conversation.

"Hey, Sampson. How's the head?"

"Still attached to my shoulders. How's Cleveland?"

"Boring. Lily's on week two of the strongest antibiotics known to mankind, and she should be out of the hospital in another ten days or so. Becka and Drew've taken it upon themselves to start tracking down your Leviathan factories. They've got some good ideas. Y'all ever think about putting Borax in the sprinkler system?"

Sam and Dean exchanged cautious looks. "We haven't really thought about that, no," admitted the older hunter slowly.

"But it sounds like it could work," mused Sam. "We'll look into it. Thanks, Faith."

"Anytime."

* * *

**May 12th, 2013, Cleveland, Ohio, 7:15 a.m.**

"I've got marching orders, if you'll take 'em."

The Slayer groaned. "Good morning to you, too. I need coffee."

"Then get your ass out of bed and make it," Dean said crisply. "We don't got a lot of time left, Faith. From all that intel Charlie dug up, it looks like Dick's looking to launch soon. But the kid prophet's finally read that damn tablet, and we have a plan."

"Which is why you're calling me." Faith forced herself to abandon the warm cocoon of her blankets and slump her slow way downstairs to the kitchen. "What've you got?"

"Delivery centers in LA, Chicago, Houston, Philly, a couple other big cities. What are the chances that your Slayers can mobilize in next three days? We need SWAT-level teams to go in and Borax the hell out of that place. Behead every Leviathan you come across – can't have even one survive long enough to get word back to headquarters. You think you can do that?"

"I'm gonna need more than the one coffee, but yeah, I can do that. Tell me more?"

Dean explained briefly about the final version of the plans to go against Sucrocorp. He left out the majority of the details, just on the off chance that the phone line wasn't safe, but he mentioned the key players: himself, Sam, Castiel, Crowley, Meg, the baby prophet Kevin, and last but not least, the Slayers.

"Castiel's back? He at full strength these days?" Faith asked skeptically. "That seems like quite the steep turnaround."

"You got a problem with Cass?"

"No," she said as she filled the coffee maker with water. It was mostly true.

The hunter picked up on something in her tone. "Oh really?" he demanded. "Then how come when I bring Cass up you get all crotchety but working with Crowley gets a free pass? He's the friggin King of Hell, for God's sake. You can't trust him."

"Of course not," Faith snapped back, forgetting her filter. She was tired, and she needed her coffee. "But you know that. Crowley'll screw you over just for kicks any day of the week. But the thing is that you know he will, and so you don't trust him.

"Castiel, now?" She clucked her tongue. "Castiel goes around and bats his baby blues and flaps those tattered wings of his, and you buy whatever mining claim out in Colorado he's trying to sell you. And then he goes and screws you over – not because he means to, but because he thinks he knows what's good for you better than you do. Sure, with Crowley you're always at crosshairs, but isn't that better than Cass going over your head?"

An interminable ten seconds passed before Dean responded, "That was a long speech."

"Yeah, well," the Slayer huffed an exhale. "I just like to know where I stand. Better a clear enemy than a confusing ally."

"So . . . Now that you've gotten that off your chest, you mind if we go back to talking battle plans?"

"Battle plans it is."

* * *

**May 14th, 2013, Cleveland, Ohio**

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855550128  
Time: 1:15 p.m.  
Message:

We said goodbye to Bobby. It was time. Your lot all good for tomorrow?

. . . .

To: 7855550128  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 1:32 p.m.  
Message:

Locked and loaded. They're not gonna know what hit them.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855550128  
Time: 1:39 p.m.  
Message:

Good. I'll call you after we finish.

. . . .

To: 7855550128  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 1:43 p.m.  
Message:

Good luck tomorrow

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855550128  
Time: 1:45 p.m.  
Message:

Right back at ya.

. . . .

* * *

**May 15th, 2013, Cleveland, Ohio**

To: 7855550128  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 7:30 p.m.  
Message:

How'd things go on your end? We kicked their asses in Chicago. Buffy massacred them in LA.

. . . .

To: 7855550128  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 7:37 p.m.  
Message:

Dean? You're not picking up.

. . . .

To: 7855550128  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 7:45 p.m.  
Message:

Neither is Sam.

. . . .

To: 7855550128  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 7:55 p.m.  
Message:

Call me, dammit.

. . . .

To: 7855550128  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 8:09 p.m.  
Message:

Dean?

. . . .


	121. Where the Wild Things Are, pt 1

 

* * *

**May 19th, 2013, Boise, Idaho, 8:30 p.m.**

It took four days before she could get ahold of Sam. Four hellishly long days of making endless phone calls, of spending hours staring at the AT&T website, waiting for Dean's phone to magically reappear. She watched as the indicator for Sam's phone and the LoJack on the Impala slowly traveled in sync from Seattle to Whitefish, When she wasn't staring slack-jawed at the computer, Faith threw herself onto her bike and began making her way to Washington. She had to see what had happened for herself.

In the first forty-eight hours, she hadn't cried once. Just kept checking her phone, hoping for a response to her increasingly panicked stream of text messages and voicemails. By the seventy-two hour marker, she reached a fragile version of acceptance. Faith locked herself in a motel bathroom with a bottle of vodka. She stared at the alcohol for an endless ten minutes before shoving it into the trashcan. Tempting as it was, that was not the solution.

At hour eighty-two, she crawled out of bed and started making plans. Finally, at hour ninety-six, Sam answered the phone.

"Faiffff?" His voice was bleary, his consonants slurred. The Slayer recognized drunk Sam when she heard him.

Skipping the pleasantries, Faith launched into her question, "Samuel. Where's your brother?"

"I don't know."

"Where are you?" Although she already knew the answer to this one, the Slayer asked anyway.

"Montana. Rufus' old place. Why?"

"Stay put. I'll be there in, uh, twenty-four."

Faith hung up without waiting for a reply. She glanced back at the half-filled top page of her legal pad and jotted down a few more ideas. After booting up her laptop, the Slayer began searching for occult stores in Boise. She needed to pick up a few supplies.

* * *

**May 20th, 2013, Whitefish, Montana, 7:45 p.m.**

The Slayer came roaring up the gravel drive twenty-three hours later, straddling a black Harley and wearing a blood red helmet. She threw open the lid on her saddlebags and hoisted out her duffel and a heavy brown paper bag soaked with grease, then swung her leg over the seat and barged into the cabin.

After dropping her things onto the kitchen table and grabbing a trash bag from beneath the sink, she stalked into the living room and took one good long look at Sam sprawled out on the couch. His hair was matted and oily, food stains liberally adorned his plaid shirt, and he looked up at her with the unfocused gaze of one who had marinated his brain in ethanol.

"G-d, you need a shower." Faith stepped over the hunter's legs and cleared the empty alcohol bottles off of the coffee table and into her Hefty bag. "You smell disgusting."

Continuing to stare blankly at the Slayer, Sam rose to his feet. "Faiffffff?"

"Shower. Now." Breathing through her mouth, she grabbed him by the shoulders and pointed him towards the cabin bathroom. "Talk later."

"You're short." He had to look over his shoulder to made the accusation. "And bossy."

"And you're tall and drunk. We all got our crosses to bear. Now come on, big guy. Get yourself cleaned up."

* * *

By the time Sam emerged from the shower, wet hair dripping down the back of his neck, the Slayer had blitzed the cabin, folded the blankets on the couch, tossed a load of clothes into the washing machine, started the dishwasher, and set the table with hamburgers, a giant salad, and diet cokes.

"Eat," commanded Faith when the hunter stumbled out into the main living area. "Then we'll talk."

Ultimately, however, her patience lasted only five minutes, and soon she began peppering dinner with questions. Every other bite of Sam's was interspersed with his explanation of what had gone down with Dick at Sucrocorp. He ended with Dean and Cass disappearing after they stabbed the Leviathan, " – and I have no idea where Kevin is, and Crowley grabbed the tablet, and I just . . ." Voice trailing off, he stabbed the last forkful of his salad morosely.

The Slayer swallowed the remnants of her hamburger. Given the absolute radio silence from Dean, she had been expecting a somewhat similar story, and so she was not shaken by Sam's revelation. "Well," she said, standing up from the table, "it's a good thing I planned ahead."

After washing the dishes, she hustled the hunter into the Impala with a terse, "I'm driving. You're too shaky." She drove twenty miles along the Montana back roads until she found a satisfactorily deserted intersection where one gravel road crossed another. The Slayer parked the Chevy off to the side of the road and chivvied Sam out of the passenger seat.

"You summoning a crossroads demon?" he asked with slightly more clarity and less slurring. "I've already tried that."

"Not quite." The Slayer poured a ziploc bag of premixed ingredients into a small copper bowl, which she then set at the center of the crossroads. Whipping a matchbook out of her pocket, she lit a match and then dropped it on top of the herbs. Faith muttered something unintelligible under her breath. Louder, she said, "Now we wait. Shouldn't be long. One, two, three . . ."

"Slayer. Jolly Green." Hands in his suit coat pockets, the dapper King of Hell appeared just beyond the copper bowl. He raised his eyebrows. "To what do I owe the displeasure?"

Faith crossed her arms across her stomach. Now this, trading barbs with a foe, this was something in her wheelhouse. "Crowley. Got a question for you."

The demon eyed her speculatively. "I don't promise I'll answer."

"And if you do, you'll probably lie. Advisory accepted. Spare me the evil mastermind of the universe crap. I need answers." The Slayer narrowed her gaze. "What do you know about what happened to Dean after Sucrocorp?"

Crowley held his hands out in a gesture of innocence that convinced no one. "Not a thing."

"You're lying," Sam spat, stepping forward towards the demon. Faith restrained him with a firm hand on his wrist and a quick shake of her head.

"And you've been drinking all your calories lately," the demon retorted, observant as ever. "Can't keep it together when big brother steps out, I see. Careful, Sam. You'll ruin your girlish figure."

Interjecting, Faith called him back to the subject at hand. "Crowley, what do you know? Where is he?"

"Not a clue. Not a clue."

The Slayer's eyes narrowed still further. "And you wouldn't tell me if you did."

Crowley smirked. "Someone's finally getting it."

Faith sighed. "Right." She began mentally preparing to send him back, but the demon continued to run his mouth.

"I have no interest in getting involved in your star-crossed little tragedy."

Startled out of her spell-casting, the Slayer looked up from the copper basin. "What does that mean?" she asked cautiously.

"You're familiar with the Highwayman, I assume? Or at least Moose here should be. The wind was a torrent of darkness, the moon a ghostly galleon, and all that utter rubbish?"

Truth be told, that did sound vaguely familiar to the Slayer. "Make your point, Crowley."

"It's revoltingly simple. You and Winchester fun-size. This go-round, you're playing the highwayman, and he's your Bess." The demon's stance widened. Clasping his hands behind his back, he recited, " _Look for me by moonlight. Watch for me by moonlight. I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way._ "

The Slayer raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Crowley resumed his former posture. "And, in this instance, Hell has no involvement in barring the way. Meddling in your melodrama, as entertaining as it might be, does absolutely nothing for my bottom line. I have better ways to occupy my time." Snapping his fingers, the King of Hell vanished.

"We could've tortured him," suggested Sam as the Slayer collected her spell ingredients and carried them back to the car. "He was probably lying."

"Could have." But Faith seemed undisturbed. "Don't worry, Sam. That was only step one. We have other steps."

Upon their return to the cabin, the Slayer immediately set about putting some of those steps into action. She disappeared into the basement for fifteen long minutes to for a fruitless conversation with the Mayor, and then she joined Sam at the kitchen table to perform a basic location spell involving a map of the world that she had picked up in Boise and two bristles from Dean's toothbrush.

When nothing happened, the Slayer turned to a darker spell passed along from Willow. This incantation landed solidly on the black magic side of the line and involved pricking Sam's finger for blood and another map of the world. Willow had promised that this spell could detect practically anything, regardless of how strongly it was warded. Still nothing.

"So," concluded Faith, frowning at the blood-streaked map, "he's not on earth. If he was, one of those maps would've burned. Crowley won't admit to him being in Hell, but that doesn't necessarily rule it out."

"So, where then?" said Sam. "Everywhere that isn't Earth? That leaves Heaven, Hell, where else?"

"Faerie, Purgatory, any one of those alternate worlds you two keep popping into. Only one thing for it."

Utterly out of ideas, the hunter wondered, "And that would be?"

"Astral projection. I'll talk to Willow. Maybe she can follow the traces at Sucrocorp, help us to help your brother find his way back." Faith frowns. "What about Meg – that demon friend of yours? And the prophet kid? Where did you say he was?"

"I don't know," he admitted.

"Huh." Faith thumbed at her bottom lip. "They could be useful." She rose to her feet. "Get some sleep, Sam. I should have a whole new batch of incantations to try tomorrow. One last thing before you go - does Amazon deliver out here?"

"Amazon?"

"I got plans, Sam. I got plans."

The hunter was halfway across the cabin when he turned back to her. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

Faith looked up from cleaning up their spell-work. "Shoot."

"How are you handling this so well?"

The Slayer shrugged. "All the booze in the world won't get your brother back. So we're gonna have to work. Sweet dreams, Sam."

Once he had disappeared into the bathroom, Faith pulled a laptop out of her duffel and powered it up. She plopped onto the couch and kicked her feet up onto the coffee table. Opening her internet browser, she started a new email.

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: May 20th, 2013 at 11:45 p.m.**   
**Subject: Day 5**

Hey. Guess we can use this again now that the Leviathan are all soap suds. No idea where you are, but I've started the search. Dragged your little brother out of the bottle. You're welcome for that, by the way.

Haven't touched a drop myself. Told Sam I tossed the whiskey, but I really just hid it on the back of my bike. You'd've killed me if I actually tossed it.

I'll find you, Dean. Heaven, Hell, somewhere in between. I'll find you.

Just hang on.

. . . .

Faith finished the email, sent it off to ZepHead_79, and closed her laptop. Five days down. She could do this. She would do her best to find him, and when – if and when that failed, she would continue on. The Slayer didn't think about it too much, because even starting down that road hurt like hell.

Oh, well. Pain, as always, was just proof that she was alive.

* * *

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: May 22nd, 2013 at 9:50 p.m.**   
**Subject: Day 7**

Sam is 48 hours sober. I am 48 hours migrainous. Is that a word?

-F

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: June 15, 2013, 7:15 a.m.**   
**Subject: Day 24**

Tried the astral projection. No luck yet. Maybe Willow was right and I really do need a focusing crystal. You got any of those in the Impala?

-F

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: June 17th, 2013, 3:00 p.m.**   
**Subject: Day 26**

You have no focusing crystals. But Sam found one down in Rufus' basement. I think he's doing better? Two weeks clean now.

-F

. . . .

* * *

You couldn't sleep in Purgatory. That was part of the problem. For the first three weeks, Dean napped only in five minute spurts leaning up against the damp bark of some tree, blade in hand. His eyes were burning and bleary, but the surges of constant adrenaline pounding through his veins made it nearly impossible to sleep, even when his limbs were leaden with exhaustion.

But once he met Benny – vampires – who trusted  _vampires_? – he could almost dial down the fight-or-flight query enough to pass out for fifteen minutes and then a half-hour at a stretch.

Ten days after Benny saved his life, Dean started dreaming again. At first it was all basic things – Hell and Sam and Bobby and Leviathans and strippers. But then one night, his dreams took a turn for the bizarre. He became almost, as Vonnegut would say, unstuck in time.

_Lying beside you_   
_Here in the dark_   
_Feeling your heart beat with mine_   
_Softly you whisper_   
_You're so sincere_   
_How could our love be so blind?_

It was the prom dance from Hell, Dean reflected, nearly choking to death on the black bow tie that was attempting to strangle him, his shoulders cruelly imprisoned by the too-tight tuxedo. Some frizzy-haired blonde in a puffy pink polyester monstrosity was clinging to him, her arms locked like a chain around his neck as Journey belted out yet another power ballad over the loudspeaker.

_We sailed on together_   
_We drifted apart_   
_And yet here you are_   
_By my side_

And then the blonde was gone as if she had never been, and in her place was a dark-eyed woman in a gown of evergreen satin draped over her lithe frame. Her equally dark hair was swept up in an elegant bun piled atop of her head, leaving her neck bare to reveal two half-healed red marks on the left side of her throat.

_So now I come to you_   
_With open arms_   
_Nothing to hide_   
_Believe what I say_

Dean frowned. He recognized those scars. The man rocked back on his heels and tried to catch the woman's gaze, but she was stared fixedly over his shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Only Journey wailing away as the woman was transfixed by something he could not see.

_So here I am_   
_With open arms_   
_Hoping you'll see_   
_What your love means to me_   
_Open arms_

Dean really hated the prom.

* * *

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: June 21st, 2013, at 11:20 a.m.**   
**Subject: Day 30**

Sam made me one of his godawful veggie omelettes for breakfast. He may just survive this yet.

. . . .

* * *

**June 27th, 2013, Whitefish, Montana, 6:45 p.m.**

"Hey." Sam dropped a hand onto her shoulder, startling Faith from her intense study-mode. "I cooked dinner."

The Slayer looked up from her laptop. "Is there salad?" she asked with trepidation.

"You bet there is. And I made a frittata."

Faith's face fell. "That sounds healthy."

"Don't worry," the hunter reassured her. "It has cheese."

"Oh, well, in that case . . ." Her stomach grumbling, the woman rose from the couch and followed him into the kitchen.

"What's the plan for tonight? More astral projection?"

She pursed her lips. The last few nights, both of them had practiced the meditation ritual that Willow promised would lead to their souls being able to travel across the cosmos in search of Dean. So far, the only results had been nightly migraines. "Or we could take the night off and go for drinks and pool."

"I thought you were trying to get me to quit the bottle."

"It's Friday night. No one quits on Friday night. We'll get you out, get you laid - not with me, obviously - but you're wound tighter than the spring inside a cuckoo clock. You need sex."

"And you?" Sam glanced up from serving a soup bowl full of salad. "What do you need?"

Faith glared at the salad as though it had personally offended her. "A hamburger. I need a goddamn hamburger."

He laughed. "If I'm not drinking, you're not sabotaging your cholesterol."

"Health Nazi."

"Drill sergeant."

* * *

Dean rode into the mostly abandoned town on a horse the color of sunset. All around him, the clapboard storefronts creaked in the cold east wind, their paint graying and peeling in the unforgiving sun. He hobbled the horse in front of the one building with light in its windows. Its swinging doors and barrel spittoon proclaimed that it had once been the town saloon, long ago before the ghosts moved in. Dean looped his reins in a loose knot around the hitching post and made his way through the swinging doors, one hand on the long-barreled Colt six-shooter at his hip.

The place was deserted save for the sole occupant behind the bar, a thin, pock-marked girl – no, woman – with brown eyes that burned like fire. She had a shotgun pulled on him before he could fully enter the room. Dean slid his Colt out of its holster automatically.

"Who're you?" demanded the barmaid suspiciously as he approached the bar, one slow step at a time.

"Butch Cassidy." The name spilled from his lips before he could think about it.

The woman scoffed. "And that makes me what, Belle Starr?"

"Look. I'll lower my gun if you lower yours."

The barrel of the shotgun dropped half an inch. "What's your real name?"

"Winchester. John Winchester."

"Like the rifle that won the West?" she snapped derisively.

Dean holstered his Colt. "What's your name?"

The woman reluctantly lowered her shotgun the rest of the way. "Faith. Or Hope. Or Heaven, depending on what you're looking for or who you're talking to. What are you looking for, Mr. Winchester?"

"A drink. And another for my four-legged pal outside. I can pay."

The faint traces of what might have once been a smile streaked across the woman's face. "You can call me Faith, then. Beer'll be a half-dollar. Water for your horse is on the house. You'll find a pump and a trough around back."

"Thanks. I'll take care of Ziggy Stardust before I have that beer, if it's all the same to you. Care to show me around to that pump?"

Faith – or Hope – or whatever her real name actually was – shook her head. "I better stay here," she said solemnly. "The wolves are coming tonight."

But before he could ask her who or what the wolves were, the saloon dissolved to be replaced by the grayscale smog of Purgatory and Benny's concerned mug hovering too close above him.

"We gotta move, brother." The vampire pulled him to his feet and clapped him on the shoulder. "The werewolves are coming."

* * *

**July 29th, 2013, Whitefish, Montana, 10:22 a.m.**

"You got two choices, Sam."

She was leaning in the open driver's window of the Impala, having come back from a grocery run sooner than either of them had anticipated. Jacket, chaps, motorcycle boots, she was encased in her leather armor from head to toe. He had hoped to be gone before the Slayer returned. Leaving a note would have been easier than this. As he attempted to gesture her away, Faith encroached further into his space, refusing to be dissuaded. She was more like his brother than either of them would ever want to admit.

Sam's hands tightened reflexively on the steering wheel. "And those choices are?"

The Slayer spoke quickly, her eyes locked on his with uncomfortable directness. She pulled no punches. "You're burned out. I get it. It's been a hard few months. You need to tap out, rest up, that's fine. But, like I said, you got two choices."

After a half-second pause for breath, Faith continued, "Either you fall off the radar and I come find you and whup your ass, or you call me once a week, let me know how you're doing, and we avoid the ass-whupping. Make it Sunday afternoons. Like you're a freshman in college who has to call his older, cooler sister so she doesn't drive out and kick his ass. There's an overall ass-kicking theme here."

"I'd noticed." The hunter tilted his head back, squinting against the sunlight. "Seriously, though, once a week?"

Faith patted him on the shoulder. "Once a week." Then she withdrew, straightened up, and stood aside as drove away.

* * *

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: July 29th, 2013, 6:05 p.m.**   
**Subject: Day 75**

Sam left this morning. He says he needs to be on his own. I told him to call me once a week. I bet that'll last a month, maybe two. Your little brother's never struck me as a fan of supervision.

-F

. . . .

* * *

"Who is she?"

The hunter glanced at his companion in surprise. "What?"

Benny pressed ahead, "The girl you've been dreaming about."

"I don't know what you're ..." Dean gave up as the vampire fixed him with a solid 'Ain't taking no shit' glare. "How'd you..."

"You talk in your sleep, brother. And you keep saying one name in particular. Who's Faith?"

Frowning, Dean pushed past the vampire. "We ain't got time for this," he grumbled, leading the way through the misty forest.

Benny snorted. "We're walking all, looking for your angel friend. We got all the time in the world."

At that moment, their conversation was interrupted by a rugaru that jumped out from behind the trees at them. Dean ducked left, Benny dodged right, and in twenty seconds the monster was lying motionless on the muddy earth. A gaping hole in his abdomen bared his intestines to the sky, and blood oozed from a stab wound underneath his chin.

"So." Benny tossed his axe from hand to hand. "Who's Faith?"

Accepting defeat, Dean wiped his demon-killing blade which had once belonged to a particularly hateful black-eyed demon bitch on the edge of his jeans. "You ever hear tell of a Vampire Slayer?"

* * *

**October 12th, 2013, Kermit, Texas, 8:15 p.m.**

He hadn't been expecting her; Faith knew that. But in a way, that was all right. It made her more like random drug testing. Their weekly phone calls were his form of probation officer appointments, and he hadn't called this week - or the last. The Impala hadn't stirred much outside of Kermit, Texas, for two months, and his voicemail box wasn't too filled up, so she figured he was doing okay.

Still, the Slayer decided it was time to pay a little house call. She pulled her Harley up along the curb of the local Biggerson's, half a parking lot away from the Chevy, and then she walked across the dimly lit cement, fishing a single steel key out of her wallet as she went. She unlocked the passenger side door and slid into the backseat to wait.

Faith's timing proved fortuitous. She had been laying on the leather upholstery, staring up at the ceiling overhead and wondering what sights it had seen, for less than ten minutes when she heard footsteps approaching. There were two voices: one a familiar baritone and the other higher and female. The Slayer dropped down into the darkness of the floorboards. She waited for the doors to open and for the chatting couple to buckle their seatbelts before she sat up, the whites of her eyes gleaming wild as they reflected in the rearview mirror.

"Hello, Sam," she purred, her eyes taking in the thin curly-haired brunette sitting shotgun. "How's it going?" She reacted in anticipation of the hunter's movements, reaching out and grabbing his arm before he could backhand her. "Easy, Night Rider."

Sam shook his arm loose and slumped against the driver's seat. "Goddamnit, Faith."

"What the hell -" began the woman.

The hunter sighed as his pulse started to slow back to a normal pace. "Amelia, meet Faith. She's my . .," he hesitated, "sister-in-law. She's not so good with calling ahead."

Faith resisted the urge to kick the back of his chair. Instead, she addressed the sidepiece. "You don't mind if we step outside for a minute, do you, Amelia? I need to talk to my brother-in-law." She danced out of the vehicle as soon as Sam opened his car door.

"Faith, what in God's name -"

She did not give him a chance to finish. "You didn't call, Sam. And you didn't answer the phone. What'd you think was going to happen? And for the record,  _sister-in-law_? The frak you thinking?"

"That only family could be this obstinately annoying."

The Slayer shifted her weight from one foot to another. "You wanna renegotiate our deal?"

"What deal?" Sam laughed without humor. "We don't have a deal. You just make proclamations and expect everyone to fall in line."

"Because I'm trying to look after you," Faith explained.

"I don't need looking after."

Lifting an eyebrow, she took another step forward into his personal space. "Or is it that you've found Little Miss Curly Hair, and and now she's the one looking after you?"

His shoulders trembled with rage. "You're outta line."

At that, the Slayer fully lost her temper and threw caution to the winds. "You ever think that maybe this isn't about just you?" she demanded, stepping even closer until the toes of her boots brushed his. "You ever think that maybe I've been calling you for me? That maybe you're not the only one who's not doing good? That maybe I need a voice on the other end of the line to remind me that I wasn't the only one going through this? God, Sam. Pull your head out of your ass."

Shaking her head, Faith walked backwards. "But you know what, whatever. You want to play house with some civilian and forget about your brother, that's cool. I'm done."

"Faith -"

"Whatever. Look, I'm sorry I embarrassed you in front of your girl. I've gotta go - vamps due to rise in San Antone at moonrise. We'll see if they feel like reenacting the Alamo."

"Faith -"

She was already across the parking lot, halfway to her Harley.

"I'll call you Sunday," Sam shouted after her. Faith did not look back.

* * *

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: October 12, 2013 at 11:43 p.m.**   
**Subject: Day 150**

Kinda pissed your brother off today. He missed two phone calls, so I went to check on him, and everything just went off the rails from there. He has a girlfriend. In Texas. Gross, I know.

I'm still trying the projection thing, every chance I get. Nothing's coming through though. Just weird dreams and weirder memories. Willow tells me I need to concentrate harder. I don't even know how that would be possible. I feel like I'm cross-eyed from concentrating already.

. . . .

* * *

**October 13th, 2013, San Antonio, Texas, 4:27 p.m.**

When the call came through, Faith answered it in spite of her righteous indignation. "Hey, Sam."

"Hey," the hunter said slowly. "About yesterday – "

She cut in before he could say more. "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. I was going to call you. I just . . . I want to be done hunting, Faith. I want to move on. With Amelia."

"Your brother -"

Sam interrupted her. "Dean's not coming back. I'm sorry, Faith, but he's not. If either of us wants half a chance at healing, we've got to accept that." He sighed. "So if you want to keep on keeping tabs on me, you're welcome to it. And I'm happy to talk to you, if that's what you need. But otherwise I'm done, quit, retired. Can you accept that?"

"Yeah." Faith stared at the outline of the Alamo, outlined in glorious red and violet fire by the setting sun. "I can accept that."

* * *

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: October 13, 2013 at 4:50 p.m.**   
**Subject: Day 151**

Your brother is a dumbass and an idiot. How you didn't kill him as a teenager, I'll never know.

-F

. . . .

* * *

"It's simple," said the dark-eyed sorceress by his side. "The secret to immortality. It is truly quite ridiculous that no one's ever guessed it before."

Dean released his grip on the hilt of his sword. His knights had told him that the faithless sorceress of Ozmandia was insane, that too much learning and not enough loving had spoiled her brain, that the lack of a masculine hand to tame her had left her too wild to treat with.

And yet, despite her reputation, she had met him half a league from her tower, robed all in black and riding a horse as white as snow, and she had invited him to follow her. The sorceress had brought him up to her study in the most distant turret of the tower and had listened to the tale of his fire-breathing problem.

"What is the secret?" he asked guardedly.

The sorceress gestured to a bowl of exotic fruit sitting on her worktable. "Lemons," she said briskly. "And what's more, they're good for killing dragons, too."

" _Lemons_?" echoed Dean.

"Lemons," confirmed the sorceress patiently.

"Kill dragons with lemons?" He still could not quite believe his ears.

"Lemons."

* * *

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: December 1st, 2013 at 11:30 p.m.**   
**Subject: Day 200**

Sam calls me every other week now. Still says he's retired from hunting. How the Hell does that work? I couldn't quit Slaying if I tried - and something tells me that you couldn't give up the road either.

Had a dream last night. Lemons again. So it turned into lemon meringue pie for dinner. I ate almost the whole thing before Lily got home from rehearsal and helped me polish it off.

First time I've had pie since you went poof. That mean something?

-F

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: December 24th, 2013, at 9:23 p.m.**   
**Subject: Day 225**

Spike's in town, and I am drunk as a dead skunk. We're cleaning out Calvary Cemetery again. You know how midwinter vamp cleaning's my favorite part of the year. Can you hear the sarcasm over there? Wherever you are?

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: December 31st, 2013 at 3:02 a.m.**   
**Subject: Day 230**

Calvary is cleared! I've got to set some traps so I don't keep having to do this.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: January 24, 2014 at 10:19 p.m.**   
**Subject: Day 255**

Happy Birthday. I miss you.

. . . .

* * *

The dream itself started out normal enough. He was walking through the hospital where he had been trapped after his car crash, Tessa at his side. He knew she was a Reaper, but somehow it didn't bother him. Not this time.

He turned left onto a unit that he had never seen on before, and Tessa stayed behind. The walked into the first room on the right and found himself in a large open ward filled with rows of cribs and isolettes lined on either wall. The room was eerily silent, save for the whirring of machines and the incessant beeping of alarms. Somehow, Dean knew that every plastic isolette contained a climate-controlled baby.

Where were the parents? Where were the nurses? He wondered about this briefly. And then he heard a new noise, distinct from the perpetual alarms.

"Puff the Magic Dragon lived by the sea . . ."

Dean followed the soft voice down to the far end of the room. Of course it was her. She'd been on his mind off and on ever since he had decided to trust Benny. Who trusted vampires? She trusted vampires.

He found her tucked away in the far back corner of the ward, sitting in a yellow pine rocking chair and cradling a blue blanket-swaddled beach ball in her arms. The fabric obscured the baby's face.

"Dragons live forever, but not so little boys," sang the Slayer, and she looked up as he came to a halt three feet away from her. Her eyes met his, fierce brown boring into cool green, and she continued her song.

He did not speak until she finished, until the very last note trailed off into silence. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Faith glanced up from the baby in her arms. "I was looking for you."

"And you got distracted by a kid?"

The Slayer jerked her head towards the empty baby-incubator next to her. "Look and see."

Dean took a half step towards the isolette. He glanced at the last name on the telemetry monitor above the bed.  _Winchester, Baby Boy._

"Is that Sam?"

"Keep looking."

He cast his eyes around the crib and found another sign, this one hand-written in lime green puff paint.  _'Dean.'_

"That's –"

"Not quite the version of you I was looking for," said the Slayer, deadpan. "He doesn't talk much." She tugged the edge of the blanket down with one finger to reveal a squashed red face and a sparse sprinkling of dark brown hair over his forehead.

"You were looking for me?" Dean stared at Baby Boy Winchester. He looked just like every other baby Dean had seen. Angry, wrinkled, unhappy.

"Couldn't find you out there." She made a vague waving gesture towards the ceiling. "So I had to come looking in here. Although somehow I thought astral projection wouldn't scramble my brain quite so bad." A hint of urgency snuck into her pleasant, nonchalant tone. "Where are you, Dean?"

"I think . . . It's Purgatory."

The baby started to cry, and Faith patted him gently on the back. "Easy, short stack. It's okay. You're gonna be okay. Purgatory, huh?" she said in her baby-friendly sing-song voice. "How do you get into Purgatory?"

"Stand too close to an exploding Dick."

"Shhh. Language. Not in front of the baby."

"I didn't think you liked kids."

"I don't," shrugged Faith. "This one's different."

Dean could hear a low rumble in the distance. It was Benny, and soon it would be time to wake up. He could see the walls of the hospital slipping away from him already. But he had one more important question to ask first. "Why's he different?"

The Slayer quirked her eyebrows. "Because," she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "he's you."


	122. Where the Wild Things Are, pt 2

 

* * *

**To: ZepHead_79**  
**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 19th, 2014 at 5:15 a.m.**  
**Subject: Day 280**

PURGATORY? You're in GODDAMN PURGATORY?

I guess it makes sense. Since that's where the Leviathans came from in the beginning.

Still. Purgatory?

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**  
**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: February 20th, 2014 at 7:41 p.m.**  
**Subject: Day 281**

Spoke to the Mayor. He's trying to cut me off. Says he doesn't need to help me. But then he'll flip-flop and say how proud he is that I'm looking for you. Crazy old coot still has himself convinced that you an' me are a thing. People believe what they want to believe, I guess.

Anyway, he's clueless on how to get someone into or out of Purgatory. Guess I need to hit the books more.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**  
**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 9th, 2014 at 10:19 p.m.**  
**Subject: Day 299**

So. Many. Books.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**  
**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: March 20th, 2014 at 11:10 p.m.**  
**Subject: Day 310**

I'm cross-eyed and no closer to finding the answer than I was two weeks ago. But I'm not gonna quit.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**  
**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: April 5th, 2014 at 1:15 a.m.**  
**Subject: Day 325**

Dean, what if Sam's right? What if you never get back? No. Never mind. You're getting out. Maybe next time I dream we can actually talk to each other.

. . . .

* * *

When the projection finally kind-of, sort-of worked a second time, Faith wasn't really surprised where she landed. Somehow or another, they always seemed to wind up here. She was walking through the familiar ghostland of Odd Fellows Rest, cracked concrete splintering the ground beneath her boots. The cemetery was nearly pitch-black, a thin ray of cool moonlight the sole thing illuminating her path.

Faith fought a shiver. Even in her dreams, New Orleans had the power to unnerve her. It had all changed here, those few weeks in early fall so many years ago.

This thought flashed through her mind in a brief instant, and then she saw looming in front of her a new grave, the soil still muddy and raw. A makeshift plank marker read 'Buddy' in soggy, charred letters. The Slayer knelt at the marker, the knees of her jeans sinking deep into the cold mud. She could hear a frantic noise rising up through the dirt – a muffled yipping. She began digging, her fingers curving into the dirt as she pulled it up, handful by handful.

"Here." A solid figure dropped onto his knees beside her. "Let me help."

They dug side by side, elbows and shoulders knocking into each other as the mud flew from the hole. They dug deeper and deeper – six inches, twelve inches, two feet, three feet – until the grave itself nearly swallowed them whole. Faith scratched at the ground until her nails cracked and her fingers bled, until the skin of her fingertips was shredded and everything hurt so bad that she wanted to scream.

The dog's yipping increased in pitch and frequency, and Faith dug faster. She had to find him, had to rescue him, had to save him.

"Where are you?" she demanded of the grave as she continued to claw at the earth beneath her. "Where are you?"

"He's gone," said the man beside her as the yipping began to fade away. "He's gone."

"No. He's here. He has to be here." She kept digging, and the words came out in a sob. "Where is he?"

The man caught her hands. "Hey. Be careful."

She lashed out, catching him in the jaw with her right fist as the rain fell. Faith knocked him onto his back, and then she knelt over him, shaking the man by his collar. "Where is he?" she half-shouted, half-sobbed. " _Where is he_?"

"Faith." He gripped her forearms, his thumbs pressing into the space between tendons painfully. "He's dead."

She rolled off of the man, collapsing onto her back in the mud next to him. The Slayer stared up at the cloudy sky and the silver of the moon. "I don't know why I forgot," she said in a quieter voice as tears leaked from her eyes. "It's been a long time since I forgot." She pushed up on her elbow to stare at his face in the dark. "Where are you?" she asked suddenly..

"Purgatory. Why the dog?" he asked. "You only had him for two weeks."

"Because that goddamn dog was dumb enough to love me. And I got him killed."

"Smart dog," he corrected. "He could tell you loved him."

Faith turned to him. "Where's Purgatory?"

The hunter shrugged. "I don't know."

* * *

**To: ZepHead_79**  
**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: April 26th, 2014 at 8:30 p.m.**  
**Subject: Day 346**

Your brother's bought himself a house. A house?! And it's ugly. I checked the Google satellite picture. You'd think he'd at least have got himself a nice looking place. Nope. But he did call and invite me over for dinner at the end of the month. So, progress?

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**  
**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: May 10th, 2014, 2:07 a.m.**  
**Subject: Day 360**

It'll be a year in a few days. It hurts less than it used to, I guess.

I'm not giving up. Don't you give up either.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**  
**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: May 16th, 2014, 7:30 a.m.**  
**Subject: Day 366**

I stayed up all day yesterday. I'm not sure what I was expecting. Drove out to that old Sucrocorp plant and parked my bike outside the spot where Sam says you went poof.

Nothing happened. You weren't there. It's stupid, but I was kind of hoping that I'd see you, you know? That'd you'd magically appear, and I wouldn't have to deal with the fact that I still can't find so much as a mouse-hole into Purgatory. I really effing suck at this.

-F

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**  
**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: June 23rd, 2014, 11:43 p.m.**  
**Subject: Day 404**

I know it's been a while. Sorry about that, Dean. I haven't stopped trying. Every time the moon's right, every time I can get my mind focused, I try the projection at nights. But it hasn't worked. Not once in the last three months. Not since that super weird dream about Buddy and New Orleans.

God, why is it always New Orleans?

Anyway, Beck and Lil seem to think that writing you is therapeutic for me and that I shouldn't quit. That makes them the only ones. Everyone else thinks it's keeping me from moving on. Drew's been dropping terms like 'prolonged bereavement,' whatever that means.

Honestly, it'd almost be easier if you were dead. Because then I could let you rest.

Yeah, like either of us is doing any resting these days.

-F

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**  
**From: FyreCracker5x5**  
**Date: July 4th, 2014, 1:37 a.m.**  
**Subject: Day 415**

Remember that Fourth of July weekend way back when we took the Slayerettes to Anna's parents' place for the weekend? And everyone got food poisoning?

I think instead of fireworks this year I'm going to blow up a vamp nest. Still have the pretty sparkles, plus that many fewer fangs for me to put down stake-style. There's a one mausoleum in particular that could use some of my personal brand of pest control.

. . . .

* * *

**August 27th, 2014, Bar Harbor, Maine, 5:42 p.m.**

"Hello?"

He closed his eyes in silent relief. Thank God. She had answered. "Faith? You in the States?"

" _Dean_?" Her shock was audible.

The hunter spoke fast. "Back from Purgatory. I only got two quarters, so we'll save story time for later. Can you get to Clayton, Louisiana, by tomorrow at sunset?"

"This had better not be some goddamned Crocotta monster," the Slayer insisted, disbelief creeping into her tone.

Huh. Trust her to remember that particularly unpleasant episode in Winchester history. "It's not. It's me," he assured her, his arm twinging painfully. The hunter pressed harder against his glowing forearm. Hang on, Benny. Not too much longer.

"Proof?"

There honestly was not time for this. Luckily, Dean had thought up something in advance. "Nashville. Karaoke. Bob Seger," he said shortly.

"Dean? _"_  The disbelief vanished.

"Clayton. Sunset. Tomorrow. Bring blood."

* * *

**August 28th, 2014, Clayton, Louisiana, 5:30 p.m.**

Dean turned at the noise of an approaching engine. A rusty blue pick-up came barreling down the gravel road outside the rural cemetery. As the truck slowed to a halt alongside the chain link fence, the roar finally cut out.

"That her?" asked Benny as the driver's side door creaked open, and a slender woman in faded jeans and motorcycle boots jumped down from the truck.

Already moving towards the pick-up, the hunter did not take the time to answer him. He dodged around a series of tombstones and scaled the fence without slowing down. Dean jerked to a stop five feet away from the newcomer, and they side-stepped one another warily.

"Silver," said the woman, holding up a gleaming dagger. She pressed the edge to her palm, and a thin line of crimson blossomed against her skin. "Your turn." She handed him the knife.

Taking it by the hilt, the man made a shallow incision alongside the deeper wound in his forearm where he had released Benny. When nothing happened, he tossed the dagger back to her.

"Borax." The woman lifted a water gun from the seat of the truck and sprayed herself in the arm and him in the face. Dean wiped the soapy water off of his face with the sleeve of his filthy leather jacket but otherwise did not react.

"Holy water." She picked up a water bottle with a wooden rosary still dangling from the open neck and splashed it on the both of them.

For a third time, nothing happened. The woman set the bottle back on the floorboard, then shoved the truck door closed with her hip. Opening her arms, she took a step forward. They crashed into one another briefly, before breaking apart when Benny cleared his throat.

Her brown eyes narrowing in suspicion, the woman glared at the vampire. "Who's this?" she demanded.

He extended his hand. "Benny. Vampire."

"Faith." The woman lifted her chin defiantly. "Vampire Slayer."

Dean moved in between the two of them. "Benny's a friend," he told the Slayer.

"In that case . . ." Faith brushed past the hunter to take Benny's hand. She shook it once, and the majority of the suspicion left her eyes. "Nice to meet you, Benny."

"Likewise. Heard a lot about you."

"Oh?" The Slayer tilted her head to the side and shot Dean a sidelong look. "Good, bad, X-rated?"

"Shut up, Faith," cut in the hunter.

She elbowed him. "What? I'm only being friendly."

"We don't got time for friendly," he said sourly. "We got to hit the road. You bring the blood that I asked for?"

Nodding, Faith walked around to the bed of her pick-up and lifted down a battered red Coleman ice chest. "Four packs of O neg, nice and chilly. Plus some IV tubing. In case you needed it for a transfusion."

The humans watched with mild distaste as Benny downed each scarlet bag in quick succession. When he finished, he tucked the empty packaging back in the Coleman and returned the ice chest to the truck. He and Dean embraced, and then the vampire stepped back.

"Keep your nose clean," he said warningly.

Dean smiled. "You too, brother."

Faith waited for the vampire to round the far edge of the graveyard before she turned to Dean. "Okay," said the Slayer as she clambered back up inside the pick-up. "You wanna start talking or should I?"

* * *

They drove until the sun began sinking, turning the road ahead into a ribbon of fire. When Faith grew tired of squinting, she pulled into the first run-down motel that they came to. "Don't worry," she said as she killed the engine. "I got all the supplies. Second duffel in the back's for you."

Leaving him the truck, the Slayer went inside to wrangle with the attendant at the front desk.

"You get the AAA discount?" the hunter asked when she returned and they began carrying the suitcases into the motel room.

"Ha. More like the double D discount," the Slayer scoffed. "He wouldn't take triple A, so I had to flirt a little bit."

In spite of his exhaustion, Dean chuckled. "Just so long as he doesn't come knocking later on."

"Ehh." She pulled a face. "Doubt it. We may want to peace out early tomorrow, though . . ."

"So before 9 it is." The hunter dropped the bag onto the queen-sized bed furthest from the door and paused with his hand over the zipper. "You get stuff for warding?"

"I got it all." Faith unzipped her duffel and began pulling items out. "Salt, holy water, borax super soakers, lighter fluid, these fantastic stick on angel-be-gone sigils that Becka made with pig's blood and laminated the backs of, some sticky tack . . . I'm sorted. Why don't you go clean up?" She wrinkled her nose. "You smell like a newly risen vamp. Go degrungify, and I'll handle this."

Following her advice, Dean carried his duffel into the bathroom. He unlaced his boots and began peeling off his filthy clothing, wincing as he tugged his shirt down over the still-open cut in his arm. None of the clothes were salvageable, and so he threw the entire pile into the trashcan. Lifting the duffel onto the counter, he investigated its contents: two pairs of jeans, a pack of black t-shirts, a button-down in red and blue plaid, a package of socks, another of boxers, a travel-sized shaving cream, a new disposable razor, deodorant, a toothbrush, floss, and toothpaste.

Dean ripped the plastic packaging open and ran his hands over the soft cotton of the t-shirts. Through the closed bathroom door, he could hear soft thuds as Faith monster-proofed the motel room. Beneath the tees, he found the final two items: a new burner phone and one of his old fake IDs in a cheap leather wallet. Shaking his head, the hunter glanced sideways at the door. That woman . . .

When the water finally reached scalding, he stepped into the shower. For the first ten minutes, Dean just attempted to scrub the months and months of grime from his body. He ran his hands through his hair, working in the cheap motel shampoo. When he pulled them away, his nails were caked with mud. Dark brown water pooled in the bottom of the shower, and he watched as it swirled away down the drain, before beginning to shampoo his hair all over again. The hunter had completed his second wash through and was fixing to start on his third when Faith knocked on the bathroom door and pushed her way inside.

"Place's all clear," said the Slayer conversationally. Dean could see her outline through the wavery half-translucent plastic of the shower curtain as she washed her hands. After drying them on a towel, the woman leaned forward to stare at her reflection in the mirror.

"You hungry?" she asked. "I ordered food from one of the takeout menus on the dresser. Large pepperoni with a side of wings. Should be here in twenty."

Dean tilted his head back beneath the hot spray of the shower, his stomach rumbling in anticipation. "God, sometimes I kinda love you."

Faith snickered. "Sometimes I kinda love you, too, dumbass." She tapped the sides of the duffel bag. "Everything look okay? I was going off of memory."

"You did good." He paused and then amended, "You always do good." Another, longer pause as Dean rinsed the soap suds off of his face. "I don't even want to think about how long it's been since I brushed my teeth."

"Let me guess - about a year?"

"Something like that. And there's something else I haven't done in a year." His voice dropped half an octave lower into its more convincing range. ". . . wanna help me conserve water?"

She laughed. "You brush your teeth yet?"

"Come on, Slayer" he groaned, watching her through the curtain. "It's been a year."

"And I went three years in super-max without getting any. Brush your teeth, and then we'll talk."

"Faith . . ." He gave up on coaxing and allowed himself to beg. "Please."

"Fine." Metal clinked on metal as the Slayer undid her belt buckle. Clothing rustled as it slithered to the floor, and the Slayer toed off her boots. Then she was shoving back the curtain at the far end of the tub and stepping over the fiberglass edge.

Dean stared at her like a thirsty man in a desert, his eyes scanning relentlessly from her forehead to her ankles, settling at last on the faint scar along her right hip where Buffy had stabbed her all those years ago. Finally looking back up to meet her gaze, he let out a low whistle. "I forgot how goddamn beautiful you are."

Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Faith crossed her arms over her chest. "You better quit with the flattery and get moving." She took a half-step towards him. "You only got twenty minutes."

Grinning from ear to ear, Dean reached for her hand and pulled her the rest of the way across the bathtub until she stood under the spray with him. "Not a problem," he drawled, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "I can do an awful lot in twenty minutes."

* * *

**August 28th, 2014, Shreveport, Louisiana, 8:22 p.m.**

Wiping her mouth on her wrist, Faith pitched her gnawed chicken bone into the empty pizza box. It skittered over two fragments of pizza crust to land in the corner of the cardboard. The Slayer glanced over her shoulder. "Wing me up, Scotty."

Dean leaned across the space between the two beds to proffer her the half-empty container of buffalo wings. A thick layer of white gauze was wrapped around his injured arm. "Didn't they come out with another of those movies? I remember seeing the adds for it, right before I went . . ."

"Away?"

"Yeah." It was a good of a euphemism as any. "So did they?"

"The sequel came out last summer, I think. Where the villain was that British guy with the cheekbones. The one who Becka thinks looks like an otter. We could watch it on pay-per-view, if you want."

"Mmm," agreed Dean around a mouthful of chicken. "Maybe in a bit." Swallowing, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. "I'm gonna clean some of this up," he said to no one in particular as he gathered a pile of crumpled grease-stained napkins from off of the nightstand. He leaned over Faith to grab the empty pizza box, and the Slayer recoiled.

"Ugh. Watch it, pizza breath." She fanned the air in front of her face with one hand. "I mean, it's better than your Purgatory breath, but still . . ."

The hunter dropped the trash into the wastebasket near the bathroom. "Hey, I brushed my teeth," he protested without heat.

"Yeah, after you kissed me. We need to get you to see a dentist?" Faith teased.

Flopping back onto his queen bed, Dean kicked his sock-covered feet up onto the mattress. "I hate dentists. You know that," the hunter reminded her as he reached for the last chicken wing.

"More or less than Sam hates clowns?" At his irritated look, she added, "I'm just trying to put things on a scale here."

"Less," said the man decidedly. "I'm not afraid; I just don't like 'em." Finishing his wing, he licked the last of the sauce off of his fingers and got up off the bed again.

Faith raised an eyebrow. "You going somewhere?"

"Apparently somebody thinks I need to improve my oral hygiene." Dean tossed his final chicken bone into the trash can and stepped into the bathroom.

"Don't forget to shave," the Slayer called after him.

* * *

While he was occupied with his toothbrush, Faith pulled her laptop out of her bag and started in on all of the work that she had left unattended during the past few days. There were nearly twenty emails for her to reply to, and she fired off quick missives to Buffy and Spike, Angel and Fred, Becka and Lily to let them know that Dean Winchester was indeed back in the land of the living. The Slayer grapevine would see that the message reached everyone else.

Momentarily, she toyed with the idea of calling Sam,, but then decided that it wasn't her decision. If Dean wanted his little brother to know that he was alive, that was his deal. She was staying out of this.

"Hey." The hunter in question poked his head out of the bathroom several minutes later. "You mind if I use your computer?"

"Help yourself," shrugged Faith. She passed over the laptop and began scrolling through the pay-per-view options in search of the latest Star Trek. It wasn't her favorite movie, but it had been entertaining enough.

For a while, they both read in silence, Dean devouring fifteen months of unopened emails while Faith hunted for something decent to watch.

"Thanks," said Dean at length, looking up from the screen.

Briefly, the Slayer glanced away from the television. "For?"

"Taking care of Sam. Looking after me."

"Oh." Faith had already tried to forget the things she had typed, half-drunk with exhaustion. Slayer plus tired plus keyboard plus internet often had unexpectedly unpleasant results. "You'd have done the same for me." She shrugged casually and then changed the subject. "How's the arm?"

"Fine." The hunter continued surveying his emails for another five minutes before he flipped the laptop closed. "You want to tell me more about how exactly that astral projection thing of yours worked?"

Fluffing the pillows behind her head, the Slayer frowned. "Can it wait until morning? My brain's not really firing on all cylinders right now. Too much pizza. Besides, I found that Star Trek flick."

"Sure thing." Dean sprawled out across his own bed. "Less talk, more movie it is."

They had barely made it halfway through the opening credits when Faith's eyes fluttered closed. Shortly after that, she began to snore faintly. Amused, Dean retrieved the TV remote from the sleeping woman's lap and continued to watch the film. Although he tried to focus on the screen, the hunter had difficulty becoming immersed in the movie. The hair on the back of his neck had been habitually on edge for the last year and change, and he practically expected something to start breaking down the motel room door at any minute.

When the end credits finally rolled just over two hours later, he reached across to the other bed and shook the Slayer's shoulder to wake her. "Hey." He caught her fist easily when she lashed out. "You want to take first watch or second?"

Blinking, Faith observed the tired lines around his eyes and came to a quick decision. "I'll take first." She pushed herself up into a sitting position and lifted her computer back onto her lap. "I've got some more Watcher's council crap to get done."

"Right." Dean handed her the demon-killing knife that had helped him to survive Purgatory. "Just in case."

Eying the blade curiously, the Slayer tucked the knife under the pillow beside her as Dean slipped beneath his covers. Faith then returned to her emails. Already, she had half a dozen exclamation mark-filled replies from her fellow Slayers as well as a far more dignified response from Angel. Spike had simply sent something inappropriate.

Smiling in spite of herself, Faith began reading through the case files of troubled Slayers that Dawn had forwarded her. Of the seven or so girls who had been called in the last six months, nearly half of them came with major baggage attached. None carried quite as much emotional luggage as the original Dark Slayer herself, but the red flags in their stories were significant enough to merit Buffy and Faith's personal attention.

The brunette scanned each case quickly and then turned to Buffy's comments, flagged in the Word document in red ink. For each case, the Buffster had suggested one or two names of Slayers who might best be able to reach out to and connect with the girl in question. Most of the time, Faith agreed with her suggestions, but every now and then she added her own thoughts in blue.

Unsurprisingly, her own name was listed next to three of the troubled girls'. It frequently happened like that. And even when she wasn't appointed as the official go-to, Slayers who were having difficulty with the endless rules of the job often ended up consulting Faith on their own. As Andrew liked to remind her, she was the murky reverse side of contemporary Slayer history, the prodigal Loki to Buffy's moral Thor. Or at least, that was how he had described it the last time he drunk-dialed her.

Around four, Faith nudged the hunter awake. "Your turn."

Disoriented, Dean practically leapt out of the bed, swinging wildly. The Slayer dodged out of the way, calling his name firmly until he came back to himself.

"Thanks," said the hunter as the reality of his surroundings sank in. He glanced at the red numbers on the nightstand alarm clock. "Haven't slept that long since I got to Purgatory."

Choosing not to comment, Faith tumbled into her own bed and yanked the blankets up over her head. She was asleep within seconds. Soon after, a soft whistling noise started up again. Confiscating the laptop, Dean gave her blanket-covered form a look of exasperated fondness. They were really going to have to do something about that snoring.

* * *

**August 29th, 2014, Shreveport, Louisiana, 8:45 a.m.**

Faith was torn from a dream starring Buffy, Angel, and a Cupid made entirely of a pile of dancing spray cheese by a hand on her shoulder and a voice calling her name. Thankfully, she recognized the voice before she woke up completely, or else somebody would have started the morning with a broken nose. The Slayer rolled over onto her side and checked the digital clock.

"Thanks for letting me sleep," she told a fully-dressed, clean shaven Dean. She took in his packed duffel waiting beside the door. "We need to get on the road?"

"Unless you want to make good on whatever you promised the manager, we should probably start moving.'

"Good thought." Faith scurried into the bathroom and began stuffing her toiletries into her bag. "Where you want to head – Kermit?" she called across the motel room.

Joining her, Dean leaned against the faux-granite counter. "I've been thinking. Finally got caught up on all the emails . . . Things've been going to sh-t while I was gone, but frankly, they were sh-t before I left. Sam's in Texas, and it doesn't sound like he'll be moving from there any time soon. I've been stuck in Purgatory for a year of nonstop wading hip-deep in monsters, blood, and more sh-t. So . . . "

"So?" echoed the Slayer when he didn't finish.

"So I'm taking a personal day. Which means we're taking a personal day. It's the tail-end of August, and it's hotter than Satan's armpit. There's that giant water park in Texas – Schlitterbahn, or whatever it's called. We hurry, we could get there by mid-afternoon. I figured we could stop at a Walmart or something along the way, pick up some cheap suits. Increase our risk of dying from skin cancer instead of as demon chow. What'dya think?"

Faith turned over the idea in her mind. "What do I think?" she mused as she slid the zipper closed on her duffel. "Oh, what the hell. I think you're right."

A slow grin lit the hunter's features. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Personal day it is."


	123. Sister, Can You Spare a Pint?

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: September 6th, 2014, at 11:15 p.m.**   
**Subject: Hey**

Good news: found Kevin. Bad news: Crowley killed his girlfriend.

Good news: He's still a prophet. Bad news: Kid's still got an attitude.

How's your sunburn? You done being a lobster yet? I think I'm almost finished peeling.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: September 7th, 2014, at 7:20 a.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Hey**

The pink's finally faded to tannish. As Lily's been reminding me fifty times a day, next time we should remember to reapply the damn sunscreen. Still worth it, though.

Ugh. Teenagers. Slayers or prophets, seems like they always come with an extra-large serving of attitude. Let me guess – is it a 'Why me? My life has been ruined kind of thing'?

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: September 7th, 2014, at 9:00 a.m.**   
**Subject: Good guess**

Hole in one. Almost like you've been around this particular block before.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: September 7th, 2014, at 6:50 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Good guess**

Maybe once or twice.

Speaking of teenagers, I'm sponsoring one of the new Slayers – sixteen-year-old from Baltimore who ran away from home after killing her first vampire. She tries to spend all of her time getting acquainted with every kind of alcohol in existence. Kinda reminds me of someone . . .

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: September 8th, 2014, at 1:15 a.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: Good guess**

Ha. That someone wouldn't happen to be you, would it?

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: September 8th, 2014 at 4:31 p.m.**   
**Subject: Well . . .**

I was more into hitting things than drinking myself blind at that age, but it's not too far off.

. . . .

* * *

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: October 24th, 2014, at 8:30 p.m.**   
**Subject: Story Time**

God. Remember how we were bitching about teenagers? I got a doozy for ya.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: October 25th, 2014, at 6:22 a.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Story Time**

I'm listening.

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: October 25th, 2014, at 5:00 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: Story Time**

Case out in Ann Arbor.

Some pureblood 'wolf was turning college students at U-Michigan. He had the bad luck to bite a group of kids who fancied themselves filmmakers. Wolf bites boy. Boy bites roommate. Roommate gets wolf to bite him. Boy and roommate fight to the death over girlfriend of first boy. Roommate then bites girlfriend. Girlfriend kills roommate and then leaves film of the whole crap-storm with a video asking us not to go after her.

Teenagers.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: October 25th, 2014, at 7:59 p.m.**   
**Subject: Hot damn**

And I thought the mini-Slayers' love lives were like soap operas. You let her go?

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: October 25th, 2014, at 8:15 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Hot damn**

Seriously. You can't write this stuff. This ridiculous romantic crap. I swear, I need to clean out my system with like twenty-four hours straight of Metallica. I don't care how pissy Sam gets.

He talked me into letting her go for now, but I bet you twenty bucks that we'll end up having to hunt Little Miss Conscience and put her down. I give her a year, maybe two.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: October 25th, 2014 at 8:23 p.m.**   
**Subject: You're on**

I'll take that bet. Oz's a werewolf, and he does pretty good. Maybe the coed will last longer than you think.

. . . .

* * *

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: November 23rd, 2014, at 11:46 p.m.**   
**Subject: Oy**

Where you headed next? I'm still wrapping up things with the newbie Slayer from Bawlmer, but I could meet up for a quick hunt in a week or so.

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: November 24th, 2014, at 6:17 p.m.**   
**Subject: Can't**

Benny's called me out to Washington to help him take out the vamp who turned him. Sounds like he used to run with a group of – get this – vampirates. Get it? VamPirates? I'll give you a ring after that?

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: November 24th, 2014, at 7:30 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Can't**

Let me guess – vampire who just happen to be pirates on the side?

Good luck with the fang gang. How's Benny been doing? You tell Sam about him yet?

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: November 24th, 2014, at 7:55 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: Can't**

You got it.

Thanks. Decent, far as I know. And not yet. He'll get all prissy and self-righteous.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: November 24th, 2014, at 8:23 p.m.**   
**Subject: Really?**

Why would he? He gets along with Spike okay. Or is it because Benny doesn't have a soul?

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: November 24th, 2014, at 8:44 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Really?**

Bingo. Also, Spike's your friend, and Sam already thinks you're chaotic neutral at best. Trust me, he'll be pissed about this. I'll tell him sometime. Anyway, he's been distracted lately. Still mooning about that girl he left back in Texas.

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: November 26th, 2014, at 10:08 p.m.**   
**Subject: Screwed**

Sh-t. Sam found out. And he's being as annoying and judgmental as I thought he'd be. Don't you dare say I told you so.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: November 27th, 2014, at 8:31 a.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Screwed**

I'm not saying nothing.

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: November 27th, 2014 at 6:29 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: Screwed**

Meet up's off for the time being. I've gotta keep things from going nuclear here. Sam's going on and on about how Benny's pulled the wool over my eyes. Says he's dangerous, says he's tricked me. I'm gonna have to keep both eyes on him. Just so he doesn't do something that I'm gonna regret.

We could try that Skype thing again some night instead?

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: November 27th, 2014, at 11:15 p.m.**   
**Subject: New Case**

I ever tell you about Garth?

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: November 28th, 2014, at 10:54 a.m.**   
**Subject: RE: New Case**

This the kid Bobby sent to help you when Sam got himself hitched? The one you thought was more annoying than Drew?

Oh, and my laptop's being spazztastic at the moment. I have to keep borrowing Lily's.

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: November 28th, 2014, at 12:03 p.m.**   
**Subject: Pretty much**

Yes. I still think that. But at least he's got a case for us, and it's taking Sam's mind off Benny.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: November 28th, 2014, at 7:28 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Pretty much**

As far as you know.

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: November 28th, 2014, at 8:09 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: Pretty much**

Boston, you suck at being comforting.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: November 28th, 2014 at 9:27 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: RE: Pretty much**

Thanks, Kansas. I think I'll get that embroidered on a throw pillow.

. . . .

* * *

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: December 6th, 2014, at 11:15 p.m.**   
**Subject: Sorry**

. . . For going AWOL. Crowley kidnapped Kevin, Cass showed up out of nowhere, and Sam's kind of being normal again.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: December 7th, 2014 at 4:29 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Sorry**

_What?_  How did Cass bust out of Purgatory? I thought only humans could pass through that portal you used?

You find Kevin yet? Something tells me prophets don't have a long shelf life in Hell.

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: December 8th, 2014, at 3:05 a.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: Sorry**

We got the little prophet back. Don't worry about that. Cass can't explain how he got out. He says he doesn't remember.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: December 8th, 2014, at 9:23 p.m.**   
**Subject: Uh huh**

I smell a fish.

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: December 8th, 2014, at 11:52 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Uh huh**

Don't you start. Something is going on. But I don't think Cass's at the root of it. I believe him when he says he doesn't remember.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: December 9th, 2014 at 9:47 a.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: Uh huh**

Insert scowling emoticon here.

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: December 11th, 2014 at 7:53 p.m.**   
**Subject: Lay off**

Enough, Faith. Having Cass on our team is better than not having him. Besides, he's my friend, remember? And he spent all that time in Purgatory trying to draw the Leviathans away from me. Even if he doesn't have all the answers of how he's back on terra firma, I trust him.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: December 11th, 2014, at 10:10 pm.**   
**Subject: RE: Lay off**

I'm not sure that I do.

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: December 12th, 2014 at 2:52 a.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: Lay off**

You're never sure that you do, and that's fine. I don't completely trust your buddy Angel.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: December 12th, 2014 at 6:25 a.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: RE: Lay off**

What does Angel have to do with this?

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: December 12th, 2014 at 4:19 p.m.**   
**Subject: Because**

He keeps trying to eat you, remember?

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: December 13th, 2014 at 7:45 a.m.**   
**Subject: You know what?**

Subject change.

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: December 14th, 2014, at 11:15 a.m.**   
**Subject: Okay**

Happy birthday. What is this – thirty-four? You got any big plans?

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: December 14th, 2014, at 3:06 p.m.**   
**Subject: Thanks**

Yeah, thirty-four. No plans. Just me and some takeout and vamp patrol. If I'm lucky, the fang'll rise before midnight.

. . . .

**To: FyreCracker5x5**   
**From: ZepHead_79**   
**Date: December 14th, 2014, at 9:41 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: Thanks**

Slaying. Such a glamorous lifestyle.

. . . .

**To: ZepHead_79**   
**From: FyreCracker5x5**   
**Date: December 15th, 2014, at 7:26 p.m.**   
**Subject: RE: RE: Thanks**

They really should start mentioning sleep deprivation in the brochure.

. . . .

* * *

**January 10th, 2015, Whitefish, Montana, 6:19 p.m.**

He told his brother that he was going for a milk run to gas up the car, but in reality there was something else that Dean needed more than the quarter-tank of unleaded. "Can you do me a favor?"

"I am not hiring a pair of strippers for your birthday."

In spite of himself, the hunter chuckled as he pulled into the familiar gas station. "That wasn't what I was going to ask for – although I certainly wouldn't say no."

"Okay," Faith dispensed with the joking. "What do you need?"

"Sam and Benny. Remember how I was worried it was going to explode?"

"It exploded?" she surmised with a touch of dread.

"Pompeii style," Dean confirmed. "Some vamp was running around the area where Benny was undercover. He wanted to be near his granddaughter, so he got a job as a line cook down in Louisiana. Benny called me a few days ago, asked me to come in and help him."

"Sounds fine so far. Then what happened?"

"Sam caught wind, dragged an old hunter friend of our dad's out there. They wouldn't listen to me – wouldn't give me and Benny time to handle things. The crazy dodger cold-cocked me and chained me to a radiator. I got loose, faked a text, and sent Sam on a goose chase back to his brunette in Texas. Benny managed to kill the vamp. But Marvin'd used Benny's girl as bait, threatened to kill her unless Benny laid down and died."

The Slayer whistled through her teeth. "Oh crap. That's . . . not a good play to make. Not from what you've told me about Benny."

Dean exhaled heavily, sliding his credit card into the pump. "Yeah. Marvin wasn't much more than a smear of blood on the floor by the time I got there. The girl was sitting out on the front steps of the restaurant, traumatized. Benny split soon after that."

"So you need me to help with clean-up duty?" Faith hazarded.

"Hang on. I'm not quite there yet. Sam . . . When he figured out what'd happened, he got really, really, really pissed. Told me that it was either him or Benny and that I needed to make a choice." Phone pinioned between his ear and his shoulder, he twisted off the gas cap and began filling up the Impala.

Startled, she guessed, "He tried to give you an ultimatum?"

"Yeah. I shot one right back at him. If he's not all in, I'm not gonna be either."

Faith could see where this was headed. "So he gives up Amelia and you give up Benny?"

"Pretty much." Dean leaned back against the side of his car. His free hand was pushed into the pocket of his jeans to protect it from the frigid January air.

"What're you going to do?"

"He's my brother, Faith. What choice do I have? Anyway, that's where you come in."

She clicked her tongue. "Go on . . ."

"Benny called me a few minutes ago, asking for help. I told him . . . I told him I couldn't come. So I'm going to send you, instead. I'll text you his number and coordinates. Can you . . . Will you . . ."

"You said he was working as a cook?" the Slayer asked contemplatively.

"Yeah?" Dean was not sure how this was relevant.

"He any good?"

Frankly, the hunter had no idea. "I – I think so."

"Then consider it handled."

* * *

**January 10th, 2015, Cleveland, Ohio, 8:45 p.m.**

After finishing her call with the elder Winchester, Faith did not waste time. She was all packed out in Becka's Subaru within fifteen minutes. Another fifteen minutes after that, her two favorite Slayerettes had thrown their bags in as well. Lily was between shows and could afford to take a few days off from her master's program. For her part, Becka was owed a couple of days' PTO, and both girls had been on her case to go on a road trip for months now. Faith wasn't sure if she could properly call them girls anymore – after all, both Becka and Lily were now on the far side of twenty-five. Girls or women or something in between, when she told them she had a job, they came running.

The three women booked it south to the coordinates that Dean had given them, making the sixteen-plus hour drive with a minimum of stops. Becka's GPS led them to a tumble-down houseboat in a narrow bayou an hour outside of Baton Rouge.

"Stay here," Faith directed as Lily brought the Subaru to a halt near a rotting dock. "I'll go find him."

A drowsy Becka lifted her head from the backseat. "You sure?" she asked as a gigantic yawn threatened to split her jaw in half.

Pulling a machete out of the floorboard, the older Slayer nodded. "Yeah. Don't worry. He knows me. If I need help –"

"You'll hoot once like a barn owl and twice like a screech owl?" suggested Lily.

Faith gave her a truly bizarre look. "I'll scream 'help.' What the hell kind of spy crap have you been reading?"

"Actually, I think that's from the Hobbit," mumbled the engineer in the backseat. "Right, Lil?"

"You got it."

"Right." The brunette Slayer jerked open the front passenger door. "Well, either way, if I need help, I'll scream 'help.' But if I'm not back in ten, that counts as a scream. Get it?"

"Got it," the other two Slayers chorused.

"Good."

Shaking her head, Faith set off across the creaking dock. She used a mildewing rope to tug the houseboat until it was close enough for her to step onto the deck. The Slayer carefully picked her way over rusting buckets and coils of more damp rope until she reached the tiny structure that served as both wheelhouse and cabin. As she poked her head in, she caught sight of a heavyset man draped unceremoniously over the wheel, his honey brown hair hidden beneath a slouching black cap.

"Hey, Benny." She kicked a bucket to further announce her presence.

The vampire groaned and glanced over his shoulder. "Damn. I should have known he'd send you." He attempted to push himself up from the helm, his arms shaking.

Faith ignored this attempt at humor. "Great to see you, too, champ. Let's get moving." She slipped an arm beneath the vampire's shoulders and hoisted him up right. As she gingerly moved him out of the wheelhouse and then across the deck, she kept up a quiet stream of conversation. "I hear you've been having a rough go of it, but fear no more. Faith the Vampire Slayer is here to slay your problems. And to keep you out of trouble." Her cheerfulness slipped for an instant, revealing the steely determination beneath.

Benny chuckled faintly as she helped him clamber over the edge of the houseboat and back onto the wooden dock. "So, what, you're my sponsor?"

"Uh uh." Faith snorted, her ponytail bouncing wildly. "Dean is your sponsor. I'm your higher power. And there's our magical mystery machine." She nodded to the Subaru. "But first – here." She popped open the hatchback and fished around in a blue Coleman ice chest for an aluminum thermos. Pressing the thermos into the vampire's hand, she smiled grimly. "Drink up."

After a single sip, Benny winced. "What the hell -"

"Pig. It's the new budget friendly option. Don't give me that look," ordered the Slayer, her smile widening. "You ain't got the money to dine on donated human. But that's okay. And you'll get used to the pig. Just takes a little while – or so my sources say," she added hastily. "Now, here's the thing. In the meantime, what you need is a community – "

"Oh no," growled the vampire as the back doors of the Subaru opened and the Slayerettes emerged from the rear of the SUV. "Don't tell me there's more of you."

"This's Becka, and that's Lily," announced Faith, nodding to each of the younger women in turn. "They're my right-hand girls. And they'll be my eyes and ears, if I need 'em."

"And what if I don't want the help?" wondered Benny sourly.

"Too late," said Lily, as she idly swung a machete from hand to hand.

"She's chosen you," agreed Becka, tapping a stake against her hip.

"You might as well accept it," shrugged the blonde. "A friend of Dean's is a friend of Faith's."

Benny looked from one Slayerette to the other and then finally back to the dark Slayer herself. "And let me guess," he said dryly. "Faith don't give up on friends?"

"No, I don't." Faith snapped the lid of the ice chest closed and then lowered the hatchback into place. "Now get in the car and drink up."

* * *

Vampire or not, soul or not, to Becka and Lily, the slow-voiced Cajun sitting in the front seat was just another of the many odd tag along that tended to pop up from time to time. Without much ado, they shoved him into the shotgun/backseat rotation, although they refused his pleas to drive.

"No," said Becka shortly as she traded places with Faith in the chill half-light of dawn. "My car. My rules. You've still got the blood shakes. So no driving. Just down some more liquid bacon." The engineer crawled into the backseat and leaned over onto Lily's shoulder. "Good night."

Benny waited five minutes for the brunette to fall asleep before turning to Faith. "So," he said, his elbow braced on the center console, "acorn doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?"

"Come again?"

"Not a complete surprise, from what Dean said – "

"Winchester really ran his mouth in Purgatory, didn't he?"

The vampire shrugged, lowering his side mirror down over the windshield to protect his eyes from the sun. "Lot of time to talk when you're hunting monsters. And I was curious. Always kinda thought Vampire Slayers were a legend. So after he mentioned you the first time, I just started asking questions."

Faith glanced in the rearview mirror to reassure herself that both girls were safely away in dreamland. "He say anything interesting?"

Shifting in his seat, Benny smiled. "Once or twice."

"You gonna share any of that secret knowledge, Lafitte? I am your higher power now. Who better to hear your confessions?"

He laughed quietly. "I am starting to like you. Looks like Dean was right about that much. He liked it, you know."

"Hmm?"

"Purgatory. Monsters. The killing. He liked it. Called it pure."

Turning this thought over in her mind, the Slayer nodded. "I could see that."

Benny pushed his luck. "He said you'd've liked it, too."

"Huh. I probably would have. Nothing wrong with killing things," said Faith easily. "So long as they're the evil things."

"Sister, I'm liking you more and more already."

* * *

It was mid-afternoon by the time they arrived back at the townhouse in Cleveland. As soon as the rumble of the engine died away to silence, Lily and Becka stumbled off to their respective rooms to take naps and catch up on emails, leaving the other two to carry in the ice chest and the remaining blood. After stowing the hemoglobin products in her fridge, Faith led Benny down into the basement to show him the spare room.

"Bed's in there," she said brusquely, jerking her head towards the wooden door on the left. "Bathroom's on the other side," she nodded to the right. "You can get some sleep. Come find us upstairs around eight. We've got a slime demon clan to take out tonight."

Benny rocked back on his heels. "A  _what_?"

"Demons. Lizardy skin. Antlers. Projectile acid slime," Faith explained patiently. "If you've got leather shoes, you're gonna want to wear them."

He shot her a queer look. "I don't got but these." Benny gestured with his chin down at the boots on his feet.

"Right." The Slayer looked him up and down, taking in his ragged work shirt and the torn hems of his jeans. "Then we'll hit up a couple of bars after and earn you a new wardrobe that way. You any good at pool?"

Folding his arms over his stomach, the vampire raised an eyebrow. "Am I . . . Am I any good at pool? Slayer, I'll have you know that I am the best at pool. I used to work the steamers running up and down the Mississippi, back before my fang days."

"Perfect. Then it's a date." Faith placed one foot on the stairway and then looked back over her shoulder. "Except without all the date-ish things," she added. "No offense, but vampires? Not really my type."

"So I've heard," Benny called after her.

* * *

**January 12th, 2015, Lake View Cemetery, Cleveland, Ohio, 8:45 p.m.**

Lake View . . . her cemetery nemesis, the giant behemoth at the heart of Cleveland that housed more corpses than Faith cared to think about. With its endless grounds and sprawling catacombs, Lake View always offered a promising hunt. If you didn't know where the things you were chasing lived, it could become a frustrating nightmare. But Faith had excellent intel on these slime demons - vampires had been complaining of their intrusion for a month. Every time she tangled with some fang these days, they always wanted to complain about the slime demons before she rammed a stake between their ribs.

Not that she recommended trusting fangs, and not that there wasn't a chance of a trap. As Faith led Benny along a familiar gravel path, she kept her eyes and ears peeled for any signs of an unpleasant surprise, and her hand never strayed from the broadsword strapped to her hip. Thankfully, the vampire knew better than to ask questions. He followed three steps behind her and a hair to her left, his footfalls falling evenly with hers. In the slender light of the crescent moon, the Slayer squinted at the map that Becka had drawn on the back of her hand.

"There," she whispered in half a breath, pointing towards a stately granite mausoleum approximately twenty yards away with her finger. Faith unsheathed her broadsword and gave it an experimental spin. "They've been living beneath that."

Benny switched his machete from hand to hand. "Two entrances or one?"

"Just the front. Stick close."

Dancing from shadow to shadow, the Slayer advanced towards the mausoleum. She froze outside the iron door, relieved to see that its hinges opened inwards. Faith took a half-step back and then charged forwards. Her boot smashed into the center of the door with a resounding clang and sent it crashing down into the mausoleum.

Faith followed the broken door right into the middle of three very surprised slime demons. Built like humans, the demons stood six feet tall, their branching tan antlers stretching another foot and a half above that. A fourth demon lay crushed beneath the iron door. The three remaining slime demons opened mouths full of jagged teeth and hissed, "Slayer."

"Evening," grinned the Slayer in question. She ducked to the left as the first demon hurtled past her, allowing it to collide with Benny and his machete. The ensuing slick squishing and hissing shrieks told her that the vampire could, indeed, handle himself. Without pausing to listen further, she darted ahead, sweeping her broadsword through the neck of the next-closest demon. In seconds, she had separated his head from his body. As the head tumbled to the ground, the bony antlers clattered uncomfortably against the granite paving slabs at her feet.

Smarter than his friends, the last remaining slime demon retreated into the dark crevices in the far corner of the mausoleum. Faith chased after him into the darkness. The next thing she knew, she had stumbled over the edge of an open pipe, and she was sliding down its sludge-filled center to the crypt beneath. At the bottom of the pipe, the demon stood waiting for her, a knife in his clawed hands.

"You've gotta be fudging kidding me," grumbled Faith under her breath as the knife slashed through the air, narrowly missing her cheek. Despite her adventure with a hundred-weight of wet plant matter, she had held onto her broadsword. She wove from side to side while the slime demon continued stabbing wildly at her with his dagger.

Pissed off now, the Slayer allowed her broadsword to swing off to the side as she lashed out with her left fist, landing a neat left hook to the demon's jaw. Then she snapped out with her left foot, her boot colliding solidly with the side of the creature's leg. Ligaments tearing, the demon crashed down onto one knee. Faith could feel the blood-rush racing within her, see the tinges of red beckoning at the corners of her eyes. She wanted to pummel this miserable piece of crap until he was nothing more than a stain on the dark earth.

Instead, she raised her broadsword and beheaded the slime demon in a single stroke.

"You're good, girl."

Faith whirled. The begrudging admiration came from the vampire behind her, now standing at the base of the drainpipe. Like her, he was covered in dead leaves, moss, and mud. Kneeling beside the fallen slime demon, the Slayer cleaned her blade on the monster's shirt.

Benny continued, "I mean . . . Damn. Winchester said you were good, but I thought he was mostly saying that 'cause he thinks you're hot."

"And now?" The Slayer straightened, returning the sword to its sheath at her hip.

He shrugged. "Looks like Dean was right on both counts. You're hot – and you're good."

A smile lighting her face, Faith laughed, "I'm the Slayer, baby. This is what I'm built for. Now, let's go slay some pool."

She turned to the drainpipe and slowly began hoisting herself up the vegetation-filled sections of cracking lead pipe. The metal creaked beneath her as Benny began his own climb. Faith waited until they had both cleared the pipe and left the desolate mausoleum several yards behind them before posing her next question. "Yo - Benny - can you make gumbo?"

"Why?" he asked, curious, as Faith slipped away from the path and began cutting her way through the woods.

"'Cuz Becka and Lily are trying to drag me into a weeknight cooking trade-off thing, and I don't cook." Faith pushed a low-hanging fir branch out of her face and held it back for Benny to pass. "You don't eat, so that's perfect."

The vampire waited for her to take the lead again. He could have retraced his way along the path, but in the trees he was utterly lost. "And what would I get out of it?"

"Free blood and access to the cheapest suppliers of pig's blood in the city," she said with a shrug. "That's a pretty good offer."

"Heh. You strike a hard bargain. Guess we'll see how things shake out."

* * *

**January 27th, 2015, Cleveland, Ohio, 8:30 AM**

"You see this?" Benny dropped a newspaper onto the kitchen table, narrowly missing Faith's cereal. "Isn't this your kinda thing?"

Groggy from another late night in the crypts of Lake View, the Slayer reluctantly looked up from her breakfast. Nearly cross-eyed, she scanned the article at the top of the page. Partway through, she had to stop and start over again at the beginning. Reading comprehension was too difficult now, when all she wanted was to crawl into a cold, dark room and sleep until she was forty. As she read, she noted the pertinent parts aloud, "Missing college student found after two weeks' search. Body mangled, visceral organs missing . . ."

"Sounds like a werewolf to me. I put your gear in the car." He nodded towards the hallway that led to the front door. "Come on, sister. Let's go."

Faith glanced back at the news article. "It's eighty miles away," she pointed out with a yawn, lifting a spoonful of half-soggy cereal away from the bowl.

The vampire was unfazed. "We could be there by ten."

"You'll get a sunburn," Faith countered, swallowing.

"I'll wear long sleeves and sunscreen." Antsy, he shifted from foot to foot. "Let's head. That blonde piece keeps singing, and I'm about to lose my mind. Please."

Sighing, she finally admitted defeat. "Yeah, sure. Just let me finish my Frosted Flakes."

* * *

**February 1st, 2015, Lebanon, Kansas, 4:30 p.m.**

Dean sprawled across the firm full-sized bed. For a decades-old mattress, it was actually holding up pretty well. Staring at the ceiling, he pressed the plastic phone to his ear. "You've got to come see this place. It's practically endless. There're like a dozen bedrooms and a garage - so many cars."

He propped himself up on his elbows to glance around at the walls. They needed a little something - posters, photos, weapons - he wasn't sure yet, but they definitely needed a little something. "And a couple of vintage bikes. You'd get a kick out of 'em. Just couldn't let your Slayerettes in or they'd overrun the place." The hunter laid back down. "You should take a road trip - we'll have a thing. The kitchen is huge. And I've got my own room," he added as an afterthought.

"You saying this new bunker of yours and Sam's needs a little christening?" mused Faith.

"We-ell," the hunter let the word drag out, "it couldn't hurt."

She continued thinking aloud, "We'd have to send Sam out to the movies -"

"Or a really long grocery run," Dean suggested.

"So that's a yes?" she asked tentatively.

He couldn't help himself - he grinned. Although he'd never admit it out loud, he kinda liked it when she was the one who wanted to see him. "I'm just saying," the hunter drawled, "I've been doing some thinking, and this bunker - it could be home base for a while, you know? So if I'm gonna christen this place, I - we - might as well do it right."

"I hear you." Her voice became oddly muffled.

"You eating something again?" he demanded heatedly. "Swear to G-d, it's like you time your meals around your phone calls . . ."

The muffling ceased, and Faith spit. "Calm down, Man of Letters. Don't get your panties in a twist. Just brushing my teeth."

Dean pulled the phone away from his ear long enough to check the time on the screen. "It's almost five. Your internal clock's gone off - unless you got a fancy date tonight . . ."

"Nuh uh." The Slayer spit again. "Just woke up like an hour ago. Was out until six this morning cleaning up after a nest of ghouls out in Cuyahoga Falls with that blood-brother of yours."

Out of habit, Dean sat halfway up and looked out into the hallway to make sure his little brother was not in earshot. "Benny . . . how's he doing?"

"He's good. We're good. Kinda weird hanging out with a vamp in the sunlight, but I've had worse ride-alongs." Water ran from a faucet somewhere in the background. Dean figured she was rinsing her toothbrush. "He's out grabbing dinner right now. Beck and Lil are throwing the cast party for Lily's latest show, so we aren't allowed in the kitchen tonight."

Reluctantly leaving the bed, he crossed the concrete to close his bedroom door. Just in case Sam had gotten bored exploring the library and decided to come be nosey. "How are they - your girls?"

Faith killed the running water. "Not too bad. Beck's dating some lawyer, and Lily keeps going out with this young-ass city councilman. He saw her in previews and was smitten. Or so he's saying," she finished darkly.

Flopping back onto the ancient mattress, Dean prompted, "You sound skeptical?"

"I don't trust men," she said matter-of-factly.

"Ouch." Although she could not see him, the hunter held a hand to his heart. "That hurts."

The Slayer snickered. "Cool it, cowboy. I trust you. And, like, I trust Giles and Angel, and I guess I trusted Wes." She paused for thought. "Sometimes Spike. Sometimes Drew. Sometimes Sam. But men on the whole? G-d, no. I'm dumb, but I'm not that dumb."

Dean decided to let that one slide. He returned to gazing at the ceiling. "So you gonna investigate him?"

An awkward silence ensued.

"Dammit, Faith. Don't tell me you already did."

"Benny might be making a few other stops on his way back with the tikka masala," the Slayer said innocently.

He shook his head in disbelief. "You're more paranoid than Bobby used to be. Not to mention, the way you mother those girls . . ."

"Please," Faith scoffed. "Like you wouldn't do the same for Sam."

"Fair enough." Speaking of his little brother, Dean fancied he could hear Sasquatch-sized footsteps echoing down the hallway. "I gotta run. You make sure that you and our friend keep your noses clean, you hear me?"

"I hear you, Dean. I won't let Benny get into any trouble I can't handle."

He snorted. "That nose thing goes for you, too, Boston."

"Uh huh," said the Slayer in that cheery tone that always meant she was choosing not to listen to him. More sincerely, she continued, "Enjoy your new digs, Dean. You and Sam - you deserve a break."

"Yeah." Dean exhaled, still watching the barren ceiling. The barren ceiling watched him back. "I'm kinda thinking we do."

* * *

**February 15th, 2015, Cleveland, Ohio, 7:15 p.m.**

Benny responded to the Slayer's 'Need to talk to you. Stat.' text by stomping upstairs to her bedroom. He walked in to find her throwing sweaters into an open red duffel bag. Pursing his lips, the vampire took in the over-filled backpack languishing on the floor next to the nightstand. "Where're you headed?"

Glancing over her shoulder, the Slayer grimaced. "Los Angeles."

"California?" He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "The hell you heading there for?"

She took a minute to respond while she rifled in her dresser drawers for a handful of clean underwear, which she added to the bag. "New group of Slayers just got called. They've got half a dozen of 'em camping out in Dawn and Xander's apartment. Buffy wants me to come help get them up to snuff. Crash course in Slaying."

Leaning up against the doorframe, the vampire shoved his hands into his pockets. "You always go when she calls?"

Faith scowled. "I got a job to do, Benny," she reminded him, tossing a pair of Doc Martens into the duffel. "And this's part of it. You're welcome to tag along," she added as a conciliatory gesture. "Could always use an extra fighter, and your style's a lot less like ballroom dancing than the way Buffy teaches these kids sometimes."

"Sorry," Benny smiled, not a fraction of remorse on his face. "Can't. Been thinking it's about time for me to hit the road, anyway." He stretched against the doorframe, reaching his arms high above his head. "Not that this ain't been fun, but a man's got to stand on his own."

"Mmm." Faith couldn't argue with that. Besides, she would have felt almost guilty dragging some poor innocent newcomer into the tangled web of drama that was Slayer Central. She threw a couple of stakes into the duffel and zipped it shut. Turning to the vampire, she fixed him with a steady-eyed stare and said, "You ever feel like chomping down on a neck or need backup in a fight, you give me a call?"

He nodded. "You got it, Tex." The vampire turned to head downstairs.

"Oh, and Benny?" Faith called him back.

The vampire froze in the doorway. "Yeah?"

Faith took a half-step forward and extended her hand. "Don't be a stranger."

Gripping her hand, Benny pulled her in for a brisk, tight hug and laughed. "After all the 'quality time' you've dragged me through? Not frickin' likely."

* * *

**February 16th, 2015, Cleveland, Ohio**

To: 7855550128  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 1:15 p.m.  
Message:

Benny's out. Completed his rehab stay Chez Slayer. I think he's gonna be okay, but I'll keep my eyes on him.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855550128  
Time: 1:18 p.m.  
Message:

Thanks. I owe you one. Wanna come around for that christening we were talking about? I can kick Sam out for the weekend.

. . . .

To: 7855550128  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 1:23 p.m.  
Message:

G-d, I wish. Gotta make a trip out to LA for the next couple of weeks. Baby Slayers need some basic training. Raincheck? I'll make it up to you.

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855550128  
Time: 1:26 p.m.  
Message:

That a promise?

. . . .

To: 7855550128  
From: 2135556081  
Time: 1:28 p.m.  
Message:

You doubting me, Winchester?

. . . .

To: 2135556081  
From: 7855550128  
Time: 1:29 p.m.  
Message:

Never.

. . . .


	124. Time in a Bottle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at last, practically at the end of all things Sync. Only one more chapter to go after this one – although I will be returning to the world of Faith and Dean in a week or two with a sequel. These characters aren't finished with me yet.
> 
> Back in November of 2014, when Faith and Dean swaggered into my brain and set up camp, I had no idea how expansive their story would grow to be. I thought something like fifteen chapters, forty-five thousand words. I never imagined this. A very warm and sincere thank you to everyone who has read this far and joined me on this journey. A parent should not have favorite children, but a writer may have favorite works, and Sync is definitely mine.
> 
> One final thing. As you may or may not have noticed, I try to choose my chapter titles carefully. Occasionally, those titles are taken from songs, and so will these last two be. I can't quote the lyrics here, but I highly recommend you look up the songs and give them a listen. Or even listen to them as you're reading… This chapter's title comes from Jim Croce's 'Time in a Bottle.'

 

* * *

**June 25th, 2027, Missoula, Montana, en route to Lolo, Montana, 5:30 p.m.**

Dean Winchester navigated the winding turns of U.S. 12, his baby purring as she easily overtook a hybrid car almost sixty years her junior. Gunning the engine for a little extra emphasis, the hunter passed the pathetic Prius and slid neatly in front of its bemused driver. Deeply satisfied, Dean grinned. Baby still got it.

"You should smile like that more often."

He glanced over at the front passenger seat, where Faith had been reading aloud from an ancient, mildew-ridden grimoire, the purpose of tonight's trip to Lolo. The book would be right up Sam's alley, and he hadn't seen his little brother in almost a week. Normally, Dean had strong feelings about reading in the car, but the tape deck in the Impala had gone out on Monday. It would be at least another three days before the replacement arrived at the garage. At this point, it was either grimoire or karaoke, and they were saving karaoke for the slightly buzzed drive back.

"What're you talking about?" he asked the Slayer, whose face softened as she watched him. "I always smile like this."

"Not lately." The woman abandoned all pretense of trying to decipher the old book. She flipped it shut, marking her place with a flattened straw wrapper. "Hate to break it to you, handsome, but that sh-t-eating grin of yours has been kinda scarce the last little bit. Nice to see it again."

Despite the exchange of blunt words, Dean's smile remained. After ten years of living together, neither of them bothered with pulling punches anymore – not that they ever really had to begin with. "I've been stuck listening to country and Top 40 for the last six days," he complained. "You try mainlining bubblegum pop for a week and see how you like it. Be enough to have you climbing the walls."

Faith smirked, but her eyes were sympathetic. "Couldn't find a single rock station on the radio?"

"They all kept going to commercial. Today, I was halfway through replacing the transmission on Judge Holden's Escalade when that new guy Lewis decided to start blasting a boy band CD on the overhead. I nearly fired him on the spot." Dean shuddered at the memory. "How was work this morning?"

"Same as every day," she shrugged, tugging her seatbelt away from her neck. "Town's quieter now that the college's out for the summer. Less of an eight a.m. coffee rush, but the diner's still busy enough . . . Hey, I got a call this afternoon."

"Yeah?"

"It was Professor Langley from U.M. – they wanted to schedule another class for July."

"What'd you tell her?"

"That we had Monday and Tuesday nights open for the first two thirds of the month, but that we were taking the last week of July to go visit family back East."

"What family back East?"

Breezily ignoring his question, the Slayer continued, "I've put in for that time off at the diner, too. The Sunnydale crew are all having a big reunion in Cleveland – can't keep them off a Hellmouth, that lot. Aaand . . . there may be whispers of a coming apocalypse around then."

Dean shook his head and prepared to pass another geriatric driver. "Again? What number are they on – ten? Twelve?"

"Life on the Hellmouth. I figured since we were planning ahead, maybe Sam could come? Unless – is he teaching this semester?"

"He hasn't mentioned it. I dunno if he'll be willing to leave Caroline and the girls, but . . . you say it's just a week?"

"Well, you never really know with an apocalypse, but if we skip the preliminaries, we can probably time it down to a week."

"Huh. We can ask him."

"Or . . ."

"Or what?"

"I can go by myself, and you two could take off. It's been a couple of months since you got out of town."

It didn't surprise him anymore, the way she read him better than anyone else could, except for Sam. After all she'd had the time.

Dean guessed that it had all started in 2015, with the Trials. Closing the gates of Hell had left his little brother breathing, but unresponsive. After he rushed Sam to a hospital, he was admitted for "stroke-like" symptoms. It had taken four long months of physical and occupational therapy before Sam was back to walking, talking, and complaining about his brother's love of mullet rock.

In the interim, he managed to fall head over heels for his physical therapist, an intelligent redhead named Caroline. With his motor skills still not quite up to snuff, he had decided to take a break from hunting, claiming that he was more of a liability than an asset. He moved out of the bunker and in with his new girlfriend, and he started taking college classes again to finish his degree. Sam and Caroline had gotten married a year later. In September of 2017, Olivia Marie, the first of their two daughters, was born.

At first, Dean wasn't sure how to handle things. He couldn't resent Caroline – he liked her well enough, and she did wonders for his little brother – but the bunker felt too quiet, and hunting alone just wasn't the same. Eventually, the hunter gave into his need for companionship and took Faith up on her longstanding unspoken offer. Or she took him up on his. It was never really clear, which one of them had made that decision first. Still, it had taken almost another month before she moved her stuff out of a Lebanon hotel and into the bunker.

The gates of Hell might have been closed, but Metatron and the angels were fully capable of causing mayhem, and there were plenty of monsters running rampant. Faith and Dean stayed as busy as they had ever been. In a way, constantly trying to save the world made things easier. Less time spent around Sam and his shiny new family mean less time having to explain things or sort out feelings.

When the Men of Letters bunker burned in 2018, after a targeted attack from Metatron's minions, Dean and Faith packed up what little they had left – their go-bags, the arsenals in each of their cars, and a handful of personal items that had survived the blaze – and moved out West to be closer to Sam and Caroline. Putting the pieces of a new life together was less traumatizing than Dean had expected. Faith quickly found waitressing work at a popular diner, and he got a job as a mechanic.

That had been nine years ago, and they had slowly become ever more deeply entrenched in life in Montana. Dean now owned the garage. Faith managed the diner and taught kick-boxing at a local gym. Together, they ran semi-annual self-defense classes for women at both the University of Montana and Missoula College campuses.

Sam had finished his Ph.D. a few years back, having written his dissertation on various old Latin dialects and their usage in occult rituals. He now taught mythology and medieval history classes at U.M. Dean was damn proud of his baby brother. Although Sammy kept busy with job and with his two girls, Livvy and Rachel, he was constantly available by phone or email to any hunter in need of research support. And the brothers still took any case within a four hours' drive that presented itself.

Rolling his shoulders back, Dean decided to change the subject. "So. When's the next batch of troubled Slayers coming out?"

While their house in Missoula was old and a little shabby, it was roomier than the two of them needed, even with Reggie, the giant German Shepherd that Sam had pawned off on Dean when his second child developed a phobia. They had a couple of spare bedrooms, and occasionally they were used by Slayers or other White Hats passing through.

Becka and Lily managed to swing by at least once a year, sometimes by themselves, sometimes with their husbands and children in tow. Every now and then, Andrew tried to use Missoula as a sanctuary to finish his latest mystery novel or escape from his legions of fans. From time to time, Dean teased that they ought to make him pay rent.

The unfortunate aspect to all of this was that the newest iteration of the Watcher's Council did not like relinquishing its assets. It did not matter that Faith had quit the Slayer organization at least four times already. She had skills, and she could talk self-destructive Slayers off the ledge. The Council wanted to use her, and they seemed incapable of taking 'no' for an answer. Dean couldn't wait for the day when she successfully told them to shove it. The drama that the Slayers brought was way out of hand. He was forty-eight. Faith was forty-six. They were getting a little old for this.

Faith coughed hesitantly, fingering the silver and turquoise cross at her neck, the one he had gotten her all those years ago in Santa Fe. "I told them no. There are other Slayers, younger Slayers, who these girls can relate to better."

"Think it'll stick this time?"

"Not sure. I called the High Buff herself and explained to her that I had been extremely patient and that I was finished playing nice. I told her that playing games was petty and that she needs to back the hell off."

"Only took you two twenty-something years to learn how to communicate."

"Ehh. So we've got a lot of water under the bridge. Frankly, I'm just shocked we're both still breathing, B and me. Anyway, you cool with the class starting next week?"

"Yup." They were pulling up outside Sam's house now, a two-story brick affair that was one of the largest and nicest on its street. Dean parked the Impala in the driveway behind Caroline's Honda Odyssey – his little brother really had sold out – and reached into the backseat to pull out a six-pack of beer for Sam and Caroline and a bag of Kit-kats for the girls.

Unbuckling her seatbelt, the Slayer tucked the grimoire under her arm and lifted a pie-laden tupperware container from the floorboard up into her her lap. Ten years at the diner had done wonders for her formerly nonexistent baking skills. As she stepped out of the Impala, she brandished the tupperware in the air. "You ready to try this?"

"I'm drooling." Dean threw an arm across the Slayer's shoulders and tugged her along as he hurried up to the front porch. "Come on. Let's not make Sammy wait any more for his book."

"Liar," she laughed. "You just want to eat."

"You caught me."

It wasn't a relationship – they still kept separate cars, separate bedrooms, separate demons lurking within the recesses of their minds. They just . . . understood each other a little bit. Two steps forward, one step back, three steps sideways. Theirs was a slow dance – always had been. But that was okay. Dean rather liked dancing with Faith.


	125. So Far Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, folks. Last chapter. Title comes from Carole King's 'So Far Away.' I'll post the first installment of the sequel in a few days. As a brief reminder, these last two chapters have been written in one form or another since May of 2015. The road was always going to end here.

 

* * *

**April 7th, 2015, Omaha, Nebraska, 5:45 a.m.**

Dean woke to an empty motel room and the noise of the shower going. Rubbing his eyes, he glanced at the alarm clock next to the bed. 5:45 a.m. Why was Sam up so damn early? Whatever. Maybe this meant that they could get back to work faster. The hunter slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed and started hunting for his jeans and a clean pair of boxers. That leftover pizza from last night should still be edible.

Finding the box with its two bedraggled slices of pepperoni, he tried eating one. It tasted much like cardboard – boring, thick, stale. But his stomach was growling fit to beat the band, and frankly, day-old pizza was the least of his concerns at the moment.

He had had the dream again. It kept popping up, every other week or so. Had been for the last month or so, ever since . . . Dean forced himself to swallow the cardboard pizza and bit down on the slice again. Apparently, his subconscious wasn't going to give him any peace until he took a long, leisurely stroll down memory lane. Which sucked, because he really had been hoping to avoid this specific walk.

It was only memory. How much could it hurt? Sitting back on the edge of his lumpy mattress, Dean closed his eyes. Broken springs pressed upwards into his rear and thighs. The irritation provided a welcome distraction. He did not want to do this. Still, the man took another bite of pizza and let himself remember . . .

About a month ago was when it had happened, when the world had lurched beneath his feet. It'd been the tail end of February, a week and a half into her trip to California, without so much as a text, email, whisper, or smoke signal from her direction since she'd landed in LA. Zip. Zilch. Zero.

He'd been hanging out in his bedroom in the bunker, dialing her number reflexively. He had called her five times in the last three days, with no response yet. It was a little weird. Usually, Faith called him back within forty-eight hours or so. Or, if she knew that she was going to be underground for a while, she sent him a line or two explaining her radio silence beforehand.

What with the tablets, Kevin, Cass, Benny, and everything else, Dean hadn't actually seen Faith more than two or three times since he returned from Purgatory. So much for his good intentions. Still, he tended to hear something from her every other week or so. Chances were, she'd finally found a guy she wanted to shack up with for more than a few days and was ignoring him. Dean had decided to give her one last try, that cold winter afternoon. Finally, he hit pay-dirt.

Only, it wasn't Faith who answered the phone. It was Willow – the pale, ginger witch from ages back. His first thought, that maybe Faith had been holding out on him all these years and was shacking up with a girl, was soon displaced by the nervousness in the redhead's voice. She had passed the phone on to Spike, apparently deciding to let him do the honors.

Spike had been surprisingly kind for a vampire. There had been an accident, he explained, calmly maneuvering around Dean's confusion and questions. Faith had been on a training run with new Slayers, just a routine altercation with a Fyarl demon out in Orange County. The girls had closed in and were trying to bring the demon to bay when it started spewing paralyzing mucus all over the place. Faith had ordered the teenagers out of range just as the Fyarl demon rushed her.

She had taken him down easily, a nice cut to the jugular with a silver knife. Even relating the tale, Spike's tone was tinged with admiration. But things had turned downhill from there. In the rush and excitement of their first successful hunt, none of the Slayerettes had noticed the strain in their leader's voice, or the coughing. No one realized anything was wrong until Faith collapsed to the ground, unconscious. By the time the teenagers turned her over onto her back, she was no longer breathing.

At that point, the girls finally pieced together that some of the mucus had worked its way down the Slayer's throat into her windpipe, blocking critical airways and suffocating her. They called 911, and she was rushed to the hospital by ambulance, but with no luck. Despite intubation and compressions, the doctors in the emergency room were unable to bring her back. It was simply too late.

It wasn't the kids' fault, Spike had said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. Horrible accidents happened – rarely to Slayers, because they tended not to live long enough – but they still happened.

It took a while for what the vampire was saying to trickle through the thick, gray fog clouding Dean's ears. He listened to Spike's soft voice, the words barely registering, as the vampire apologized for the delay in letting him know. The new girls had panicked, and panic clogged the chain of command. Buffy and Spike themselves hadn't heard until the day before. The vampire's words spun to a halt, and he had waited for what must have seemed like an inevitable outburst.

When the hunter didn't respond, Spike pressed, "Dean? You still with us?"

Everything sank in with a terrible finality. Instead of speaking, Dean threw his phone against the wall, where it had exploded into a dozen shards of jagged black plastic. Not enough. He picked up the lamp from his nightstand and hurled it to the ground. The sound of shattering glass had brought Sam at a run, confused and concerned.

Dean had not taken the time to explain things then. He had simply grabbed his keys, shouldered his younger brother aside, and told him not to wait up. And to be honest, he wasn't entirely sure what had happened after that. His memory of the next few days was fuzzy at best.

Opening his eyes in Nebraska, the hunter reached for the trashcan beside the bed and spit the pizza out of his mouth. He made a face. Yeah, it was definitely not worth finishing. He found a water bottle in the mini-fridge and drank half of it down in one go. It wasn't like she had been his girlfriend or anything. He didn't need to crawl into a bottle of Johnny Walker to handle this. He was doing fine. He just needed the dreams to stop.

Dean couldn't make up his mind about which dreams were worse – the ones where she lived, or the ones where he watched her die. Last night's installment had been another of the godawful 'if only' dreams, where they both survived a little longer, long enough to have each other's backs. This one had been set in Montana. They'd even had another dog.

Dumbass Disneyland ending or Slasherfest vamp out, both kinds of dreams were like a barrage of sucker punches to the gut. And yet, as much as he dreaded them before and hated them afterwards, there was something to be said for getting to see her again.

He wouldn't admit it – who was there to admit it to besides Sam? – but he missed it. Her wolfish smile in the thick of a fight, when it looked like they were about to lose. Her body pressed against his, the two of them dancing in some grungy bar. Her voice on the other end of the phone, listening or laughing, somehow having the power to make even the Apocalypse – the real one – feel surmountable.

He missed everything, but perhaps, most of all, he missed that no matter what terrible thing he did, he could never truly shock her. At the end of the really bad hunts, the ones where he had sunk so low that he was worse than the nightmares he was hunting, she had been his something to look forward to. No matter how far he fell, she was never out of his reach. Until now.

Acting of their own accord, his fingers pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and began typing in a series of numbers:  _2-1-3-5-5-5-8-0-6-1._  Dean waited while the call rang out. One day, that infernal Watcher's Council of hers was going to catch wise and disconnect both the phone and the number. In the meantime . . .

"Hey. This is Faith. You know what to do."

_Fin._


End file.
